Madame Dambreville did not leave her. Ever since the morning she had been speaking to her of Léon, making vague complaints, trying to bring her to speak to her son, so as to patch up their connection. She drew her attention to him, as he was conducting a tall, scraggy girl back to her place, and to whom he made a show of being very assiduous.
“He abandons us,” said she, with a slight laugh, trembling with suppressed tears. “Scold him now, for not so much as looking at us.”
“Léon!” called Madame Josserand.
When he came to her, she added roughly, not being in the temper to choose her words:
“Why are you angry with madame? She bears you no ill-will. Make it up with her. It does no good to be ill-tempered.”
And she left them embarrassed before each other. Madame Dambreville took Léon’s arm, and they went and conversed in the recess of a window; then they tenderly left the ball-room together. She had sworn to arrange his marriage in the autumn.
Madame Josserand, who continued to distribute smiles, was overcome by emotion when she found herself before Berthe, who was out of breath at having danced so much, and looked quite rosy in her white dress, which was becoming rumpled. She clasped her in her arms, and almost fainted away at a vague association of ideas, recalling, no doubt, the other one, whose face was so frightfully convulsed:
“My poor darling, my poor darling!” murmured she, giving her two big kisses.
Then Berthe calmly asked:
“How is she?”