But there were no
changes at the Red Chateau--no outward changes. It might, in
truth, have been a house party but for the prowling troopers and
the continual grumbling of the Englishman when alone with
Maurice.
During the day they hunted or took long rides into the interior
of the duchy. Both women possessed a fine skill in the saddle.
In the evenings there were tourneys at chess, games and music.
Each night Fitzgerald learned a little more about chess and a
little less about woman. The countess, airy and delicate as a
verse of Voiture's, bent all her powers (and these were not
inconsiderable) toward the subjugation of Maurice. She laughed,
she sang, she fascinated. She had the ability to amuse hour
after hour. She offered vague promises with her eyes, and
refused them with her lips. Maurice, who was never impregnable
under the fire of feminine artillery, was at times half in love
with her; but his suspicions, always near the surface, saved him.
Sometimes he caught her hand and retained it over long; and once,
when he kissed it, there was no rebuke. Again, when she sang,
he would lean so close that she could feel his breath on her
cheek, and her fingers would stumble into discords.
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