On the morrow Maurice accompanied his grandmother, Bertha, and Count Tristan to the residence of the Marchioness de Fleury. Count Tristan's malaise evinced itself by his unusually fretful and preoccupied manner, his querulous tone, and a partial forgetfulness of those polite observances of which he was rarely oblivious. He allowed his mother to stand, looking at him in blind amazement, before he remembered to open the door; was very near passing out of the room before her, and scarcely recollected to hand her into the carriage. His abstraction was partially dissipated by her scornful comment upon the contagious influences of a plebeian country; but to recover himself entirely was out of the question.
On reaching the ambassador's mansion, the visitors were disconcerted by the information that Madame de Fleury "did not receive."
"She will receive us!" answered Maurice, recovering himself. "We are here by appointment." And, passing the surprised domestic, he ushered his grandmother into the drawing-room. Bertha and Count Tristan followed.
The servant, with evident hesitation, took the cards that were handed to him, and retired. The door of the salon chanced to remain open, and rendered audible a whispered conversation going on in the entry.
"I dare not disturb madame at this moment; she would fly into a terrible rage. You know she never allows her toilet to be interrupted!"
These words, spoken in a female voice, reached the ears of the visitors.
"But the gentleman says it is an appointment. What's to be done? What am I to answer?" was the rejoinder in rough male tones.
"You are a blockhead,—you have no management," replied the first voice. "I will arrange the matter without your stupid interference."
Lurline now courtesied herself into the room, and, after bestowing an arch glance of recognition upon the viscount, addressed the countess.