Sidonia had to struggle with rising tears; but they were tears of gratitude, of relief. Madame la Maréchale patted her on the shoulder, stooped to embrace her; there was about her a delicate atmosphere of Parma powder and amber-scented laces.
"It is good, my child," she murmured, "to have a friend at court—some one who knows the ways of it. Ma petite, you and I, we'll do great things together! Nay, but we will talk no more now. A little supper would not come amiss. Hey, what have you eaten to-day?"
She rang a silver bell, and a smart soubrette appeared, who stared with bold, black eyes at the visitor.
"Bettine, my good girl," said the suave lady, "take ... mademoiselle into my chamber, and arrange me her coiffure before supper.—We must be beautiful," she added, turning pleasantly again to Sidonia, "for we may have a guest."
"This way, mademoiselle," said Bettine, briefly.
As she led Sidonia across the threshold of a violet-scented, violet-hued bower, the lady's dulcet tones called after her—
"And then, Bettine, return to me here. I have to speed thee with a little note."
"It is well, madame," answered the French girl. (There was no "fashion" in Westphalia without Gallic handmaids.)
Sidonia looked around, and then at the girl's hard face as she closed the door. It seemed to her as if a bog quivered under her feet where she had thought to find firm footing. Her ears had been first disagreeably struck by the word "mademoiselle," and the emphasis that the old lady had placed on it. Mademoiselle!—to her who had so clearly introduced herself as the wife of Count Kielmansegg. The reference to an expected visitor next filled her with inchoate suspicion, which the order concerning a note intensified. She now read an insolent meaning in Bettine's eyes as they appraised her.
"Whom does your mistress expect to supper?" she asked, with sharpness.