The two girls closed the door, ran quickly upstairs, and locked themselves in Violette's bedroom.
"Now tell me all about it," said Céleste, as they seated themselves on the ottoman.
"Oh! it's too dreadful for words," said Violette. "I asked Dr. Villebois to allow me to prepare the plaster for papa, and put it on him myself. I made a lovely one, and put three times as much mustard on it as I was ordered, as I wanted it to do him ever so much good. Well, I uncovered his chest and spread it carefully over and had just tucked him up and was about to leave when I discovered to my horror that I had entered the wrong room, and had put the plaster on a strange gentleman. I dared not take it off for fear of waking him, and so I crept out of the room on tip-toe. Later on when the people came rushing upstairs I ran to see what was the matter, and found out to my horror that the unfortunate man was—whom do you think?"
"Riche?"
"No, my dear—Marcel! Good Heavens! what shall I do? He will never forgive me."
Céleste gave a little cry of surprise.
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, putting her arm round Violette's shoulder, "what a dreadful mistake to make, but I am sure, dear, with a little tact, you will be able to put matters right."
"Do you really think he will ever forgive me?" Violette asked, looking into her face for some gleam of hope.
"Oh yes, of course he will. I know Marcel far better than you do. He is really a very nice man, and has far too much sense of humour to be angry for long. Besides, you know the Italian proverb 'Ad ogni cosa e rimedio fuora ch'alla morte.'"
"Thank you ever so much, dear, for your sympathy and advice. I shall be much happier now," and so saying they left the room together.