“If you tell Arthur that Bertha looks ill “—began Jenny.
Edmondstone turned toward her sharply. “Arthur!” he repeated. “Who is Arthur?”
Mrs. Trent answered with a comfortable laugh.
“It is M. Villefort’s name,” she said, “though none of us call him Arthur but Jenny. Jenny and he are great friends.”
“I like him better than any one else,” said Jenny stoutly. “And I wish to set a good example to Bertha, who never calls him anything but M. Villefort, which is absurd. Just as if they had been introduced to each other about a week ago.”
“I always hear him address her as Madame Villefort,” reflected Edmondstone, somewhat gloomily.
“Oh yes!” answered Jenny, “that is his French way of studying her fancies. He would consider it taking an unpardonable liberty to call her ‘Bertha,’ since she only favors him with ‘M. Villefort.’ I said to him only the other day, ‘Arthur, you are the oddest couple! You’re so grand and well-behaved, I cannot imagine you scolding Bertha a little, and I have never seen you kiss her since you were married.’ I was half frightened after I had said it. He started as if he had been shot, and turned as pale as death. I really felt as if I had done something frightfully improper.”
“The French are so different from the Americans,” said Mrs. Trent, “particularly those of M. Villefort’s class. They are beautifully punctilious, but I don’t call it quite comfortable, you know.”
Her mother was not the only person who noticed a change in Bertha Villefort. Before long it was a change so marked that all who saw her observed it. She had become painfully frail and slight. Her face looked too finely cut, her eyes had shadowy hollows under them, and were always bright with a feverish excitement.
“What is the matter with your wife?” demanded Madame de Castro of M. Villefort. Since their first meeting she had never loosened her hold upon the husband and wife, and had particularly cultivated Bertha.