When she was dressed, Finette left her sitting by the open window, the balcony of which was heaped with exquisite flowers.
The girl—her only bridesmaid—went to attire herself in her own room, which adjoined that of her mistress.
“What has happened to me?” Lucia asked herself in affright. “What means this weakness, this sense of a sudden blank? Shall I be able to go through my morning’s work? What will happen next? Shall I live to enjoy my honors, my wealth, my prince’s adoration? Nay, I must strive against this pain and depression and fear.”
Rising, she began to walk to and fro, with uncertain, wavering steps, swaying from side to side unconsciously.
Presently Finette returned, arrayed in a really charming manner in a cloud of pretty, fresh, embroidered muslin. In her hand was a large bouquet of the most choice blossoms, fit for the bride of a king to carry.
“See, madam,” she exclaimed gaily; “here are some flowers, this moment sent. There was no name left, but you will guess from whom they have come.”
Lucia took the flowers, and put the bouquet up to her pale face, without making any remark.
“See how the sun shines—a happy omen!” continued the girl lightly, as she gathered up her mistress’ handkerchief, gloves, and little ivory fan. “The carriage waits—we shall be in good time.”
Lucia recovered her strength, and in a certain degree her spirits. They descended to the carriage, and drove to the Russian embassy.