Eugene ran his fingers through his hair, and constrained himself to bow. He thought that now Mme. de Beauseant would give him her attention; but suddenly she sprang forward, rushed to a window in the gallery, and watched M. d’Ajuda step into his carriage; she listened to the order that he gave, and heard the Swiss repeat it to the coachman:
“To M. de Rochefide’s house.”
Those words, and the way in which M. d’Ajuda flung himself back in the carriage, were like a lightning flash and a thunderbolt for her; she walked back again with a deadly fear gnawing at her heart. The most terrible catastrophes only happen among the heights. The Vicomtesse went to her own room, sat down at a table, and took up a sheet of dainty notepaper.
“When, instead of dining with the English Ambassador,”
she wrote, “you go to the Rochefides, you owe me an
explanation, which I am waiting to hear.”
She retraced several of the letters, for her hand was trembling so that they were indistinct; then she signed the note with an initial C for “Claire de Bourgogne,” and rang the bell.
“Jacques,” she said to the servant, who appeared immediately, “take this note to M. de Rochefide’s house at half-past seven and ask for the Marquis d’Ajuda. If M. d’Ajuda is there, leave the note without waiting for an answer; if he is not there, bring the note back to me.”
“Madame la Vicomtess, there is a visitor in the drawing-room.”
“Ah! yes, of course,” she said, opening the door.
Eugene was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, but at last the Vicomtesse appeared; she spoke to him, and the tremulous tones of her voice vibrated through his heart.
“Pardon me, monsieur,” she said; “I had a letter to write. Now I am quite at liberty.”