Ronald, as the intimate friend of Maurice de Gramont, had received an invitation to the dinner given by the Marchioness de Fleury to the relatives of the viscount.
The young men entered Madame de Fleury's drawing-room together, and, after having basked for a few seconds in smiles of meridian radiance, and been inundated by a flood of softly syllabled words, moved away to let the beams of their sunny hostess fall upon new-comers.
Maurice glanced around the room in search of his cousin.
"She has just entered the antechamber," said Ronald, comprehending his look. "Her Hebe-like face this minute flashed upon me."
While he was speaking, Bertha and her uncle were announced, and advanced toward their hostess.
The low genuflection of the marchioness had been responded to by Bertha's unstudied courtesy, and the lips of the young girl had just parted to speak, when she suddenly gave a violent start, and uttered a cry as sharp and involuntary as though she had trodden upon some piercing instrument. As she tottered back, her dilated eyes were fixed upon Madame de Fleury in blank amazement.
"What is it, my dear? Are you ill?" asked her uncle with deep concern.
Bertha did not reply, but still gazed at the marchioness, or rather her eyes ran over the lady's toilet, and she clung to her uncle's arm as though unable to support herself.
"I am afraid you really are ill," continued the Marquis de Merrivale. "Something has disagreed with you; it must have been the truffles with which that pheasant we had for déjeuner was stuffed. I toyed with them very timidly myself."
"Pray sit down, my dear Mademoiselle de Merrivale," said Madame de Fleury, leading her to a chair which stood near. "Sit down while I order you a glass of water."