“Mme. la Comtesse is overwrought,” she said firmly, “or she would have said at once what has happened. M. le Comte has come home alone. Mme. de Mont-Pahon has left the whole of her fortune to Mlle. Rixende absolutely, and so she, and M. de Peyron-Bompar have broken off the marriage, and,” she added boldly, “we are all thanking God that he has saved M. le Comte from those awful harpies!”
Old Madame had listened in perfect silence while Nicolette spoke: and indeed the girl herself could not help but pay a quick and grudging tribute of admiration to this old woman, who faithful to the traditions of her aristocratic forbears, received this staggering blow without flinching and without betraying for one instant what she felt. There was absolute silence in the room after that: only the clock continued its dreary and monotonous ticking. The Comtesse Marcelle lay back on her couch with eyes closed and a look almost of relief on her wan face, now that the dread moment had come and gone. Micheline had, as usual, taken refuge in the window embrasure and Nicolette knelt beside Marcelle, softly chafing her hands. Grandmama was still standing beside the table, lorgnette in hand, erect and unmoved.
“Bertrand,” she said after awhile, “is in there, I suppose.” And with her lorgnette she pointed to the bedroom door, which Nicolette had carefully closed when she entered, drawing the heavy portière before it, so as to prevent the sound of voices from penetrating through. Nicolette hoped that Bertrand had heard nothing of what had gone on in the boudoir, and now when grandmama pointed toward the door, she instinctively rose to her feet as if making ready to stand between this irascible old woman and the grief-stricken man. But old Madame only shrugged her shoulders and looked down with unconcealed contempt on her daughter-in-law.
“I ought to have guessed,” she said dryly, “What a fool you are, my good Marcelle!”
Then she paused a moment and added slowly as if what she wished to say caused her a painful effort.
“I suppose Bertrand said nothing about money?”
Marcelle de Ventadour opened her eyes and murmured vaguely:
“Money?”
“Pardi!” grandmama retorted impatiently, “the question of money will loom largely in this affair presently, I imagine. There are Bertrand’s debts——”
Again she shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference, as if that matter was unworthy of her consideration.