“Certainly—we should never be cruel enough to separate you!”
Madame Orlandi seated Pistache at her side and at once made him the object of conversation.
“Yesterday my dear little pet had a sad time. We went to see M. Loigny, uncle of that dear Jean Berlier who is such a good friend to my daughter. He lives near Chambéry in a villa, all covered with roses. His house is a scented bower. He has great taste, this old man, but very little politeness. He lives in his garden quite forgetful of mankind and manners. Pistache destroyed a young rose-tree, and the flower-maniac threw him out of the door. I departed in a most dignified way leaving my daughter behind, M. Jean being kind enough to escort her home in the evening, when he made profuse apologies.”
“Is M. Landeau away?” said Madame Dulaurens, rather shocked at the way in which Madame Orlandi interpreted her maternal duties.
Quite unmoved, the Italian Countess answered:
“M. Landeau is away. He is doing splendid business at present. My girl will scarcely see him before the day the contract is signed. He is not exactly beautiful to look upon. Isabelle is very artistic. But she will get used to him. You can get used to everything, except being no longer beautiful after you have once been so.”
Regrets for her lost youth made her sigh. She lowered her face, smothered with violet powder,—that face which for a long time she had not dared to gaze upon in the mirror. When the butler offered her a dish of choice fruits, she looked at it with a gasp and, turning to Madame Dulaurens, asked:
“Are there no sweets?”
“No,” answered Madame Dulaurens, rather surprised.
“How tiresome!”