But M. Villefort was always there,—gravely carrying the shawls, picking up handkerchiefs, and making himself useful.
“Imbécile!” muttered M. Renard under cover of his smile and his mustache, as he stood near his venerable patroness the first time she met the Villeforts.
“Blockhead!” stealthily ejaculated that amiable aristocrat. But though she looked grimly at M. Villefort, M. Renard was uncomfortably uncertain that it was he to whom she referred.
“Go and bring them to me,” she commanded, “Go and bring them to me before some one else engages them. I want to talk to that girl.”
It was astonishing how agreeable she made herself to her victims when she had fairly entrapped them. Bertha hesitated a little before accepting her offer of a seat at her side, but once seated she found herself oddly amused. When Madame de Castro chose to rake the embers of her seventy years, many a lively coal discovered itself among the ashes.
Seeing the two women together, Edmondstone shuddered in fastidious protest.
“How could you laugh at that detestable old woman?” he exclaimed on encountering Bertha later in the evening. “I wonder that M. Villefort would permit her to talk to you. She is a wicked, cynical creature, who has the hardihood to laugh at her sins instead of repenting of them.”
“Perhaps that is the reason she is so amusing,” said Bertha.
Edmondstone answered her with gentle mournfulness.
“What!” he said. “Have you begun to say such things? You too, Bertha”—