She dropped upon the sofa, and was seized with one of those hysterical paroxysms which French women designate as an attaque de nerfs.
Victorine, with a great display of distress, flew to the sufferer, loosened the strings of the bonnet which she was recklessly crushing,—held a bottle of sal volatile to her nose (for the Frenchwoman was always prepared for similar pleasant excitements, and carried a vial in her pocket), and commenced rubbing the lady's hand with great energy.
"Save,—save the dress! Do not let it burn!" Madame de Fleury gasped out between her sobs.
"The dress is beyond saving, madame," replied Madeleine; "it no longer exists."
At this moment the marchioness suddenly recovered.
"And you have destroyed it? You have destroyed a toilet which would have made me talked of for a week! It is abominable,—it is disgraceful,—it is criminal!"
Madame de Fleury always used the strongest terms where matters of the toilet, the most important interests of her life, were in question.
"What am I to wear this evening? What is to become of me?"
The marchioness wrung her hands, and wept in genuine tribulation. She sunk back again upon the sofa, as though prostrated by her crushing sorrow.
Madeleine allowed the grief of the fine lady to expend itself in incoherent lamentations, and then said, in an icy tone,—