“Madame is mistaken,” replied the obstinate old woman.
“I thought I heard it, Dame Clotilde;” then, abandoning the attempt, she turned again to her calculations. “Eight louis! Three I owe for the rent, and five I have promised to M. de la Motte, to make him support his stay at Bar-sur-Aube. Pauvre diable, our marriage has not enriched him as yet—but patience;” and she smiled again, and looked at herself in the mirror that hung between the two portraits. “Well, then,” she continued, “I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris and back again; living for a week, one louis; dress, and gifts to the porters of the houses where I go, four louis; but,” said she, starting up, “some one is ringing!”
“No, madame,” replied the old woman. “It is below, on the next floor.”
“But I tell you it is not,” said she angrily, as the bell rang yet louder.
Even the old woman could deny it no longer; so she hobbled off to open the door, while her mistress rapidly cleared away all the papers, and seated herself on the sofa, assuming the air of a person humble and resigned, although suffering.
It was, however, only her body that reposed; for her eyes, restless and unquiet, sought incessantly, first her mirror and then the door.
At last it opened, and she heard a young and sweet voice saying, “Is it here that Madame la Comtesse de la Motte lives?”
“Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois,” replied Clotilde.
“It is the same person, my good woman; is she at home?”
“Yes, madame; she is too ill to go out.”