I have never heard mamma express herself so fluently. I was all the more surprised as, not having heard a word of what she had already said, this sentence seemed suddenly sprung upon me. Not knowing what to answer, I threw myself into the arms of mamma, who, after a minute or so, put me away gently, saying, “You are suffocating me, dear.”
She wiped her eyes with her little cambric handkerchief, which was damp, and said, smilingly:
“Now that I have told you what my conscience imposed on me, I am strong. See, dear, I think that I can smile. Your husband, my dear child, is a man full of delicacy. Have confidence; accept all without misgiving.”
Mamma kissed me on the forehead, which finished off her sentence, and added:
“Now, dear one, I have fulfilled a duty I regarded as sacred. Come here and let me take your wreath off.”
“By this time,” I thought, “they have noticed that I have left the drawing-room. They are saying, ‘Where is the bride?’ and smiling, ‘Monsieur Georges is getting uneasy. What is he doing? what is he thinking? where is he?’”
“Have you tried on your nightcap, dear?” said mamma, who had recovered herself; “it looks rather small to me, but is nicely embroidered. Oh, it is lovely!”
And she examined it from every point of view.
At that moment there was a knock at the door. “It is I,” said several voices, among which I distinguished the flute-like tones of my aunt Laura, and those of my godmother. Madame de P., who never misses a chance of pressing her two thick lips to some one’s cheeks, accompanied them. Their eyes glittered, and all three had a sly and triumphant look, ferreting and inquisitive, which greatly intimidated me. Would they also set about fulfilling a sacred duty?
“Oh, you are really too pretty, my angel!” said Madame de P., kissing me on the forehead, after the moist fashion peculiar to her, and then sitting down in the large Louis XVI armchair.