When I knew that Karl had gone I went down stairs and had another surprise. I found Madame d'Artelle plunged apparently in the deepest grief. She was a creature of almost hysterical changes of mood.
"What is the matter?" I asked, with sparse sympathy. "Don't cry. Tears spell ruin to the complexion."
"I am the most miserable woman in the world," she wailed.
"Then you are at the bottom of a very large class. Tears don't suit you, either. They make your eyes red and puffy. A luxury even you cannot afford, beautiful as you are."
"You are hateful," she cried, angrily; and immediately dried her eyes and sat up to glare at me.
I smiled. "I have stopped your crying at any rate."
"I wish to be alone."
"I think you ought to be very grateful to me. Look at yourself;" and I held a hand mirror in front of her face.
She snatched it from me and flung it down on the sofa pillow with a little French oath.
"Be careful. To break a mirror means a year's ill luck. A serious misfortune for even a pretty woman."