She threw a rapid glance in the mirror, to examine her dress and her hair, as a woman does on marching to a decisive encounter. Her stiff crêpe collar like the neckpiece of a suit of armor kept her head more erect and made her physiognomy more aggressive and severe. The corners of her thin lips arched in an aggressive smile. Ah! Mme. Chambannes wishes to see her! Well, all right! She would see her and hear her too! She was going to have her wishes, that lady, and perhaps more than that.
Thérèse opened the door of the drawing-room. Mme. Chambannes, in a black dress, black gloves and a black hat, rose slowly. Each made a ceremonious salute, from the back of the neck, with an accompaniment of watching looks and glances which already felt each other in the semi-anticipation of a contest.
Thérèse opened the door of the drawing-room, to take a seat. Mme. Chambannes murmured hesitatingly!
“I wished to tell M. Raindal how sorry we were about his loss.”
“Thank you, madame!” Thérèse said, dryly. “My father is at the chapel.... I shall transmit your condolences to him, as soon as he comes home.”
She fell back into silence. Mme. Chambannes went on, more timidly:
“We learned all about it through one of our common friends, the Marquis de Meuze.... Your uncle was not very old, was he?”
“Forty-two, madame.”
“Still young!” Zozé remarked, urged to exaggeration by the fierce looks of Thérèse.
She walked towards the door, but stopped halfway: “Will you be kind enough to tell M. Raindal that I shall come to visit him to-morrow?”