“I am quite ready.”
“No, dear Irene,” said I, “you shall not go; you shall dine with your friend, and your driver can wait. Make him do so, Count Rinaldi; my niece will pay, will you not, Marcoline?”
“Certainly. I should like to dine here, and still better to put off our departure till the next day.”
Her wishes were my orders. We had a delicious supper at five o’clock, and at eight we went to bed and spent the night in wantonness, but at five in the morning all were ready to start. Irene, who wore her handsome cloak, shed hot tears at parting from Marcoline, who also wept with all her heart. Old Rinaldi, who proved himself no prophet, told me that I should make a great fortune in England, and his daughter sighed to be in Marcoline’s place. We shall hear of Rinaldi later on.
We drove on for fifteen posts without stopping, and passed the night at Valence. The food was bad, but Marcoline forgot her discomfort in talking of Irene.
“Do you know,” said she, “that if it had been in my power I should have taken her from her parents. I believe she is your daughter, though she is not like you.”
“How can she be my daughter when I have never known her mother?”
“She told me that certainly.”
“Didn’t she tell you anything else?”
“Yes, she told me that you lived with her for three days and bought her maidenhead for a thousand sequins.”