“There is no occasion to mind him,” continued Montalais; “he is not jealous.”
“But, mademoiselle—” said Raoul.
“Yes, I understand. Well, he is as discreet as I am.”
“Good heavens!” cried Louise, who had applied her ear to the door, which had been left ajar, “it is my mother’s step!”
“Madame de Saint-Remy! Where shall I hide myself?” exclaimed Raoul, catching at the dress of Montalais, who looked quite bewildered.
“Yes,” said she; “yes, I know the clicking of those pattens! It is our excellent mother. M. le Vicomte, what a pity it is the window looks upon a stone pavement, and that fifty paces below it.”
Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair. Louise seized his arm and held it tight.
“Oh, how silly I am!” said Montalais, “have I not the robe-of-ceremony closet? It looks as if it were made on purpose.”
It was quite time to act; Madame de Saint-Remy was coming up at a quicker pace than usual. She gained the landing at the moment when Montalais, as in all scenes of surprises, shut the closet by leaning with her back against the door.
“Ah!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, “you are here, are you, Louise?”