"Yes," murmured Madame de Lescombat. "I know the terrible story."
"I should have returned the note to you if I had been able to see you, and I will return it now whenever you like, but I have read and re-read it many times, and I now know your writing as well as if I had received hundreds of letters from you."
"And what do you think of the contents of this famous missive?"
"I think you were most kind and indulgent as regards poor Pierre in letting him invite to that lunch—"
"Some of his old flames. Well, I felt tolerably sure of him, but in my secret heart I was a trifle anxious, as you may judge from the fact that I begged him to come and see me as soon as the repast was over. How many ladies were present?"
"Only one, Blanche Pornic."
"Ah! he had sworn never to see her again," sighed Octavia. "It grieves me to think she was there. She nearly ruined poor Pierre. I succeeded in getting him out of her clutches, and she has never forgiven me for it. She, no doubt, spoke about me during the lunch?"
"Yes, madame, and I won't conceal from you the fact that she isn't very kindly disposed towards you."
"Oh, I can guess what she said about me. She told you that I was the daughter of a Lyons' weaver, didn't she? That is the truth, and I'm not ashamed of it. She also told you that I didn't love my first husband, and that I deceived him, I suppose. The fact is, he never did inspire me with any other feeling than gratitude, but he asked nothing more, and he never had any reason to complain of me."
"Mademoiselle Blanche pretended that he poisoned himself."