Proceeding along an inner staircase, father and son reached the private rooms, and were astonished to find in the hall a tall footman waiting there.
“Your mother has visitors,” said Baradier. “How has that come about; to-day is not her reception day?”
They entered Madame Baradier’s small salon. There she sat, pensive, near the window, her needlework lying idly in her lap.
“What! You here?” said Baradier. “I thought you were receiving.”
“The visit is not for me.”
“What is the meaning of this? No one can have called for Amélie. Then it must be for Mademoiselle de Trémont?”
“You are right,” said Madame Baradier.
“What is the matter with you?” asked the banker. “There is something extraordinary going on. Explain.”
“It is, indeed, very extraordinary. It is a schoolmate of Geneviève, who has come especially from the convent to assure her of her sympathy and affection; a trusted servant came with her, since her father could not come in person.”
Baradier’s face turned crimson, as he asked with a frown—