“No, my friend.”
“Who then is the object of so much regret? Speak; tell me.”
“Madame Brillant.”
“A friend of the old maréchale ‘s?”
“More than a friend,” replied madame de Mirepoix; “her faithful companion; her only companion; her only beloved object, since her lovers and admirers ceased to offer their homage—in a word, her cat.”
“Bless me!” cried I, “how you frightened me! But what sort of a cat could this have been to cause so many tears?”
“Is it possible that you do not know madame Brillant, at least by name?”
“I assure you,” said I, “this is the very first time I ever heard her name.”
“Well, if it be so, I will be careful not to repeat such a thing to madame de Luxembourg; she would never pardon you for it. Listen, my dear countess,” continued madame de Mirepoix; “under the present circumstances it will be sufficient for you to write your name in her visiting-book.”
I burst into a fit of laughter.