"It certainly would be quite impossible to appear more indifferent," I answered M. de Cernay. The count stepped forward, looked at her through his glass, and said:
"That is true. There is no one in the world can brave a thing out as she can! The very evening after poor Merteuil's death, after all the stories that are going around,—for it is the talk of all Paris,—to dare to come here to the opera, in her own box! It passes everything!"
I carefully noticed M. de Cernay's face, and believed I saw there an expression of spite, not to say hatred, which I had already seen when he spoke of Madame de Pënâfiel. I had a great mind to tell him that no one knew better than he that every word of the story about Ismaël was false and stupid, and that Madame de Pënâfiel could not behave in any other way than in following the course she was now pursuing; for, if the stories were true, she owed it to her self-respect to give them the lie by affecting an entire indifference; while if they were false, her indifference was perfectly natural.
But as I had no reason to take up her defence a second time, I contented myself with asking some questions about her, after the count's strange indignation had spent itself.
"Who is that very pretty brunette that was with Madame de Pënâfiel until just now?" I asked.
"That is Mlle. Cornelia, her companion. The Lord knows what a life she leads, that poor girl; her mistress treats her with the greatest cruelty, and with unequalled tyranny. She pays dearly for the bread she eats, so they say. She has been living with her three years, and is so afraid of her that she doesn't dare to leave her."
This strange reason made me smile, but I kept on.
"And who is the old gentleman with the white hair?"
"He is the Chevalier don Luiz de Cabrera, a relation of her husband's. During the lifetime of the marquis he lived at the residence of De Pënâfiel, and he continues to live there as a sort of chaperon for his cousin. He looks after the way the house and equipages are kept up, though she is ridiculous enough to keep an equerry, absolutely like in the days of the old régime, an old fellow that doesn't eat in the servants' hall, but has his meals served in his own room. I tell you she can't do like other people,—the foolish things she does are incredible. But," said the count, interrupting himself, "who is that lady entering her box? Ah, it is Madame la Duchesse de X——. She has gone to be polite to her, so as to be able to take some one with her to the concert to which all Paris would like to be invited, because Madame de Pënâfiel has so bewitched Rossini that he is going to play for her an unpublished morceau. Ah, who is going in her box now? Why, to be sure, it is old, fat Pommerive. The old beggar! He goes to pay his compliments in hopes of a dinner at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and after uttering his thousand platitudes he will go away and tell stories that he ought to be hung for."
"Is he one of her friends?" I asked M. de Cernay.