It was the gardener bringing in flowers for the table, to receive her compliments.
“Alice, do look at these carnations,” said Madame Dulaurens Hurriedly, “and the jessamine and roses. They are very nice, Pierre, thank you.”
At last she glanced at her daughter. Alice’s silence surprised her. The girl was deathly pale and kept her eyes cast to the ground. When she raised them she met her mother’s gaze and, unable to bear it any longer, burst into tears. Madame Dulaurens took her in her arms.
“Dearest, what is the matter?” she said.
“I don’t know. Why do you want to marry me off so soon? I am quite happy. Keep me here still, mother darling.”
Madame Dulaurens stroked the girl’s head and her cheeks as she used to do when Alice was a child.
“But I am not going to lose you, my sweet. Have I not explained that you are not going to leave me?” she added with a smile, though still rather anxiously:
“Think what a lovely Countess of Marthenay you will make, dear! And don’t you like the Count?”
“Oh, I don’t know!”
It was her frightened way of refusing, Madame Dulaurens had a presentiment of it.