"Your wit will fill the gap, my dear aunt," said Indiana.
The Marquise de Carvajal, who only wanted to be urged, set off at last. Whereupon, Indiana hid her face in her hands and began to weep; for she had made a great sacrifice and believed that she had already blasted the attractive prospect of the day before.
But Raymon would not have it so. The first thing that he saw at the ball was the old marchioness's haughty aigrette. In vain did he look for Indiana's white dress and black hair in her vicinity. He drew near and heard her say in an undertone to another lady:
"My niece is ill; or rather," she added, to justify her own presence at the ball, "it's a mere girlish whim. She wanted to be left alone in the salon with a book in her hand, like a sentimental beauty."
"Can it be that she is avoiding me?" thought Raymon. He left the ball at once. He hurried to the marchioness's house, entered without speaking to the concierge, and asked the first servant that he saw, who was half asleep in the antechamber, for Madame Delmare.
"Madame Delmare is ill."
"I know it. I have come at Madame de Carvajal's request to see how she is."
"I will tell madame."
"It is not necessary. Madame Delmare will receive me."
And Raymon entered the salon unannounced. All the other servants had retired. A melancholy silence reigned in the deserted apartments. A single lamp, covered with its green silk shade, lighted the main salon dimly. Indiana's back was turned to the door; she was completely hidden in the depths of a huge easy-chair, sadly watching the burning logs, as on the evening when Raymon entered the park of Lagny over the wall; sadder now, for her former undefined sufferings, aimless desires had given place to a fleeting joy, a gleam of happiness that was not for her.