This self-imposed waiting seemed interminable to him. The passers-by irritated him, he replied to a few bows, but avoided shaking hands with any one. Finally, the door of the box opened, and Agostini and an elderly man, wearing the rosette of the Legion d’Honneur, appeared. The count and his companion made their way towards the grand staircase, before Marcel, who had his back turned to them, and disappeared. Then the young man opened the door of the box, and entered.
The spectator was seated on the sofa. Marcel closed the door, and walked up to her. Turning her head, she looked at the intruder, and said, without the faintest agitation—
“You are in the wrong box, sir.”
He replied ironically—
“No, madame, there is no mistake, if I am in the presence of Madame Vignola, unless you are the Baroness Grodsko.”
At these words, the young woman’s face appeared frightfully agitated. Her eyes turned pale, and her lips trembled.
“Whose name is that you have uttered?” she murmured, in unsteady accents.
“Evidently one of your own! So far as I can judge, you change names, according to circumstances, just as you change faces, according to the men you associate with.”
“I do not understand what you mean. Once more I say, you are mistaken, retire.”
“No! I shall wait here till Count Agostini returns. We will have an explanation in his presence. He, at any rate, will not be able to deny his identity. And that will help to establish yours.”