"Extraordinary how fond he is of him, to be sure," thought she, to whom the male heart was a perpetual mystery. Horatia very rarely came to say Good-night to the child; and the female heart being an even profounder riddle it was not given to Mrs. Kemblet nor to anyone else to know how often she longed to do so.
As it befell, however, this night the desire had been too strong for her.
Martha saw the Comtesse far down the corridor. She was in her dressing-gown, her hair hanging in great plaits. Two courses were open to Mrs. Kemblet; to prevent, by warning her mistress, a meeting which in the circumstances might have softening consequences, or to further it by removing herself. She chose the latter, and vanished before she could be seen.
The door, ajar and unguarded, surprised Horatia. Very gently, so as to run no risk of waking the child, she pushed it a little wider. Her eyes, accustomed to the brighter light of the corridor, took in slowly the dim room, the shaded nightlight, and, by the side of the crib, a slim silkclad figure stooped over the occupant, its dark head almost touching the pillow.
Without a sound Horatia looked; without a sound she moved away.
(4)
At the door of the ballroom Armand paused a moment adjusted his mask, and entered.
Although everybody was masked none were wearing dominos, and provided a guest's disguise were already known it was easy to identify him. But there was so great a crowd that it was difficult to find a given person, and Armand looked in vain among the throng of monks, courtiers, dancing girls and devils, for the high headdress of Madame de Vigerie's fourteenth century costume, in which, as he knew, she was impersonating Jeanne de Flandre, the wife of Jean de Montfort, Duke of Brittany, as she rode with him into Nantes in 1341. But at last he saw in a doorway, above the sea of heads the peak of the hennin, with its floating veil of golden gauze. It must be she. Before he could get through the crowd he had to watch the hennin vanish without having seen the face beneath it, and ere he could pursue it further he was seized upon by an acquaintance and led up to a mask who represented Esmeralda, the heroine of Hugo's successful novel of the previous year. The lady was lively, and he was engaged in converse with her when, halfway down the long room, he caught sight of the tall headdress again, in the company of a Dominican friar, and he turned eagerly to look.
Yes, it was Laurence, in a flowing dress of purple over gold. The room suddenly filled with mist ... for on her breast, tucked into the high golden girdle, lay two white roses, the flowers he had sent her that afternoon....
"Beau masque, you are pale," said the voice of Esmeralda in his ear. "What has disturbed you—you are ill, perhaps?"