“I will work night and day, monsieur.”
“Let it be amusing.”
“It shall make all Paris die with laughing, except one person.”
“Who will weep over it. Apropos, date the publication from London.”
“Sir, I am your humble servant.” And the journalist took his leave, with his fifty louis in his pocket, highly delighted.
The unknown again turned to look at the young woman, who had now subsided into a state of exhaustion, and looked beautiful as she lay there. “Really,” he said to himself, “the resemblance is frightful. God had his motives in creating it, and has no doubt condemned her to whom the resemblance is so strong.”
While he made these reflections, she rose slowly from the midst of the cushions, assisting herself with the arm of an attendant, and began to arrange her somewhat disordered toilet, and then traversed the rooms, confronting boldly the looks of the people. She was somewhat astonished, however, when she found herself saluted with deep and respectful bows by a group which had already been assembled by the indefatigable stranger, who kept whispering, “Never mind, gentlemen, never mind, she is still the Queen of France; let us salute her.” She next entered the courtyard, and looked about for a coach or chair, but, seeing none, was about to set off on foot, when a footman approached and said, “Shall I call madame’s carriage?”
“I have none,” she replied.
“Madame came in a coach?”
“Yes.”