Though rather late, there were as yet few people assembled.
She greeted me very gracefully; but I observed in her a certain reserve, uneasiness, and sadness.
I fancied she wished to speak to me in private.
I was striving to ascertain what could be her anxiety, when, in the course of conversation, M. de Sérigny, at that time Minister of Foreign Affairs, spoke of children in connection with an admirable portrait which Lawrence had just exhibited at the Salon.
Madame de Fersen gave me a rapid glance, and then complained that her daughter was ailing and sad at finding herself thrown among strangers, and that no distraction had availed to draw her out of her melancholy,—neither games nor walks in the large gardens surrounding the mansion.
"But, madame," said I, hoping to be understood, "would it not be better to send your daughter to the Tuileries Gardens? She would find there companions more of her own age, and their gaiety would doubtless divert her."
A touching glance from Madame de Fersen showed me she had understood, for she replied, quickly: "Mon Dieu! you are right, monsieur. I am very sorry I did not think of that sooner. From to-morrow, I shall always send my little girl to the Tuileries. I am sure she will be very happy there, and already I feel assured she will get well."
I was happy to see from this mysterious interchange of thoughts that Madame de Fersen's heart read mine.
Fresh visitors interrupted the conversation, the circle grew larger, and I rose to go and chat with some ladies of my acquaintance.
"Ah, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Madame de ——, "M. de Pommerive here! That man thrusts himself everywhere, then?"