He merely smiled, and said nothing.
“Very well, M. Salvatori,” said I, corrected by the quietude of his manner; “what is your day?”
“Wednesday, if your Excellency pleases.”
“Wednesday be it, and at eight o’clock.”
“As your Excellency desires,” said he, bowing and retiring.
It had never occurred to me to ask for any information about the happy fair one; indeed, if I had given a thought at all to the matter, it would have been that she was of the rank of a femme-de-chambre, or, at least, some unhappy children’s governess, glad to exchange one mode of tyranny for another. As he was leaving the room, however, some sense of remorse, perhaps, at the brusquerie I had shewn towards him, suggested the question, “Who might the lady be?”
“Mademoiselle Graham.”
“Ah! a very good name, indeed,” said I; and so, with a word or two of common-place, I bade him good-by.
The Wednesday morning arrived, and two carriages drove into the court of “the Mission:” out of one sprung Signor Salvatori and a very bearded gentleman, who accompanied him as his friend; from the other alighted, first, an elderly lady, whose dress was a mixture of wedding finery and widow’s mourning; then came a very elegant-looking girl, veiled from head to foot, followed by her maid; and, lastly, the chaplain to “the Mission.”
They were some minutes too early, and I equally behind my time; but I dressed hastily, and descended to the salon, where M. Salvatori received me with a very gracious expression of his self-satisfaction. Passing him by, I advanced to address a few words to the old lady, who had risen from her seat; when, stepping back, I exclaimed,