When her son entered the salle à manger, he respectfully kissed her hand, and she received this homage with queenly dignity.
“I am afraid that we have kept you waiting, mother,” said Lucien; “I must ask your pardon.”
“In any case, that would be my fault, madame,” I said, bowing to her. “Monsieur Lucien has been telling me and pointing out many curious things, and by my reiterated questions I have delayed him.”
“Rest assured,” she said, “I have not been kept waiting; I have but this moment come downstairs. But,” she continued, addressing Lucien, “I was rather anxious to ask you what news there was of Louis.”
“Your son has been ill, madame?” I asked.
“Lucien is afraid so,” she said.
“Have you received a letter from your brother?” I inquired.
“No,” he replied, “and that is the very thing that makes me uneasy.”
“But, then, how can you possibly tell that he is out of sorts?”