“No, mademoiselle.”
“Where’s my uncle?”
“He is at church, mademoiselle.”
Jacquelin and Josette were by this time on the first step of the portico, holding out their hands to manoeuvre the exit of their mistress from the carriole as she pulled herself up by the sides of the vehicle and clung to the curtains. Mademoiselle then threw herself into their arms; because for the last two years she dared not risk her weight on the iron step, affixed to the frame of the carriage by a horrible mechanism of clumsy bolts.
When Mademoiselle Cormon reached the level of the portico she looked about her courtyard with an air of satisfaction.
“Come, come, Mariette, leave that gate alone; I want you.”
“There’s something in the wind,” whispered Jacquelin, as Mariette passed the carriole.
“Mariette, what provisions have you in the house?” asked Mademoiselle Cormon, sitting down on the bench in the long antechamber like a person overcome with fatigue.
“I haven’t anything,” replied Mariette, with her hands on her hips. “Mademoiselle knows very well that during her absence Monsieur l’abbe dines out every day. Yesterday I went to fetch him from Mademoiselle Armande’s.”
“Where is he now?”