“Chupin.”
It was as if a bomb-shell had exploded in the room.
Aunt Medea, with a shriek, dropped her book, and sank back, half fainting, in her chair.
Blanche sprang up with a face as colorless as her white cashmere peignoir, her eyes troubled, her lips trembling.
“Chupin!” she repeated, as if she hoped the servant would tell her she had not understood him correctly; “Chupin!”
Then angrily:
“Tell this man that I will not see him, I will not see him, do you hear?”
But before the servant had time to bow respectfully and retire, the young marquise changed her mind.
“One moment,” said she; “on reflection I think I will see him. Bring him up.”
The servant withdrew, and the two ladies looked at each other in silent consternation.