“The costume is here. There is no sense in being so late. Madame will not be ready in season. No one could make her toilette in such a little while.”
“Don’t scold, Constant. If you only knew what had happened. Look!” and she pointed to Jack.
The factotum seemed utterly out of patience. “What! Master Jack back again! That is very naughty, sir, after all you promised. The police will have to come and take you to school; your mother is too good.”
“No, no, it was not he. The priest would not have him. Do you understand? They insulted me!” Whereupon she began to cry again, and to ask of heaven why she was so unhappy. What with the meringues and the nougat, the wine and the heat of the room, she soon felt very ill. She was carried to her bed; salts and ether were hastily sought. Mademoiselle Constant acquitted herself with the propriety of a woman who is no stranger to such scenes, went in and out of the room, opened and shut wardrobes, with a certain self-possession that seemed to say, “This will soon pass off.” But she did not perform her duties in silence.
“What folly it was to take this child to the Fathers! As if it was a place for him in his position! It would not have been done certainly, had I been consulted. I would engage to find a place for this boy at very short notice.”
Jack, terrified at seeing his mother so ill, had seated himself on the edge of the bed; where, looking at her anxiously, he in silence asked her pardon for the sorrow he had caused her.
“There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help her dress now.”
“What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have no heart to amuse myself.”
“Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at this pretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little cap.”
She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the little bells which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist.