“God alone knows,” said Valenglard, “what people will say in Grenoble!”
“They will say it is your wedding ball,” said Madame Morin to her niece.
“Yes, and they will doubtless talk of my magnificent dress, my lace, and my diamonds,” said the niece, pleasantly.
“They will talk of your beauty, your wit, and your goodness,” I replied, passionately, “goodness which will make your husband a happy man.”
There was a silence, because they all thought I was alluding to myself. I was doing nothing of the sort. I should have been glad to give five hundred louis for her, but I did not see how the contract was to be drawn up, and I was not going to throw my money away.
We went to my bedroom, and while Mdlle. Roman was amusing herself with looking at the jewellery on my toilette-table, her aunt and Valenglard examined the books on the table by my bedside. I saw Madame Morin going to the window and looking closely at something she held in her hand. I remembered I had left out the portrait of the fair nun. I ran to her and begged her to give me the indecent picture I had so foolishly left about.
“I don’t mind the indecency of it,” she said, “but what strikes me is the exact likeness.”
I understood everything, and I shuddered at the carelessness of which I had been guilty.
“Madam,” I said, “that is the portrait of a Venetian, lady, of whom I was very found.”
“I daresay, but it’s very curious. These two M’s, these cast-off robes sacrificed to love, everything makes my surprise greater.”