“Well, good-bye, grandpapa. I won’t be long.”
And lightly, like a bird, she crossed the street, and ran up to her dressmakers. The old ladies and their brother were just finishing their supper, which consisted of a small piece of pork and a light salad, with an abundance of vinegar. At the unexpected entrance of Miss Chandore they all started up.
“You, miss,” cried the elder of the two,—“you!”
Dionysia understood perfectly well what that simple “you” meant. It meant, with the help of the tone of voice, “What? your betrothed is charged with an abominable crime; there is overwhelming evidence against him; he is in jail, in close confinement; everybody knows he will be tried at the assizes, and he will be condemned—and you are here?”
But Dionysia kept on smiling, as she had entered.
“Yes,” she replied, “it is I. I must have two dresses for next week; and I come to ask you to show me some samples.”
The Misses Mechinet, always acting upon their brother’s advice, had made an arrangement with a large house in Bordeaux, by which they received samples of all their goods, and were allowed a discount on whatever they sold.
“I will do so with pleasure,” said the older sister. “Just allow me to light a lamp. It is almost dark.”
While she was wiping the chimney, and trimming the wick, she asked her brother,—
“Are you not going to the Orpheon?”