Ernanton, after opening the door, stopped for an instant to contemplate one of those elegant female figures which must always command attention, if not love. Reposing on cushions, enveloped in silk and velvet, this lady was occupied in burning in the candle the end of a little stick of aloes, over which she bent so as to inhale the full perfume. By the manner in which she threw the branch in the fire, and pulled her hood over her masked face, Ernanton perceived that she had heard him enter, but she did not turn.
"Madame," said the young man, "you sent for your humble servant—here he is."
"Ah! very well," said the lady; "sit down, I beg, M. Ernanton."
"Pardon, madame, but before anything I must thank you for the honor that you do me."
"Ah! that is civil, and you are right; but I presume you do not know whom you are thanking, M. de Carmainges."
"Madame, you have your face hidden by a mask and your hands by gloves; I cannot then recognize you—I can but guess."
"And you guess who I am?"
"Her whom my heart desires, whom my imagination paints, young, beautiful, powerful, and rich; too rich and too powerful for me to be able to believe that what has happened to me is real, and that I am not dreaming."
"Had you any trouble to enter here?" asked the lady, without replying directly to the words which had escaped from the full heart of Ernanton.
"No, madame; the admittance was easier than I could have thought."