She wished to be alone in her trouble, and see if she could decide upon some plan for warding off this impending ruin.
The dreaded morrow came.
She counted the hours until two o’clock. After that, she counted the minutes.
At half-past two the servant announced:
“M. the Marquis of Clameran.”
Mme. Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold. During a long, sleepless night, she had mentally arranged beforehand every detail of this painful meeting. She had even decided upon what she should say. She would reply this, and ask that; her words were all selected, and her speech ready.
But, at the dreaded moment, her strength gave way; she turned as cold as marble, and could not rise from her seat; she was speechless, and, with a frightened look, silently gazed upon the man who respectfully bowed, and stood in the middle of the room.
Her visitor was about fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair and mustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expression was one of haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit of black.
The agitated woman tried to discover in his face some traces of the man whom she had so madly loved, who had pressed her to his heart, and besought her to remain faithful until he should return from a foreign land, and lay his fortune at her feet—the father of her son.
She was surprised to discover no resemblance to the youth whose memory had haunted her life; no, never would she have recognized this stranger as Gaston.