The servant stepped into the room to consult her mistress. Then she said to Jeanne:—
"Walk in here, Mademoiselle."
The room was much more richly appointed than the hall, though the polished floor was quite bare. A great high-backed settee with a carved top was covered with some flowered stuff in which golden threads shimmered; there was a tall escritoire going nearly up to the ceiling, the bottom with drawers that had curious brass handles, rings spouting out of a dragon's mouth. There were glass doors above and books and strange ornaments and minerals on the shelves. On the high mantel, and very few houses could boast them, stood brass candlesticks and vases of colored glass that had come from Venice. There were some quaint portraits, family heirlooms ranged round the wall, and chairs with carved legs and stuffed backs and seats.
On a worktable lay a book and a piece of lace work over a cushion full of pins. By it sat a young lady in musing mood.
She, too, said, "What is it?" but her voice had a soft, lingering cadence.
Jeanne explained meeting M. Fleury and his message, but her manner was shy and hesitating.
"Oh, then you are Jeanne Angelot, I suppose?" half assertion, half inquiry.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," and she folded her hands.
"I think I remember you as a little child. You lived with an Indian woman and were a"—no, she could not say "foundling" to this beautiful girl, who might have been born to the purple, so fine was her figure, her air, the very atmosphere surrounding her.
"I was given to her—Pani. My mother had died," she replied, simply.