“Is it possible that you have lent yourself to some cruel hoax, monsieur?” Montriveau exclaimed. “I have just come from Mme de Langeais’ house; the servants say that she is out.”
“Then a great misfortune has happened, no doubt,” returned the Vidame, “and through your fault. I left the Duchess at your door——”
“When?”
“At a quarter to eight.”
“Good evening,” returned Montriveau, and he hurried home to ask the porter whether he had seen a lady standing on the doorstep that evening.
“Yes, my Lord Marquis, a handsome woman, who seemed very much put out. She was crying like a Magdalen, but she never made a sound, and stood as upright as a post. Then at last she went, and my wife and I that were watching her while she could not see us, heard her say, ‘Oh, God!’ so that it went to our hearts, asking your pardon, to hear her say it.”
Montriveau, in spite of all his firmness, turned pale at those few words. He wrote a few lines to Ronquerolles, sent off the message at once, and went up to his rooms. Ronquerolles came just about midnight.
Armand gave him the Duchess’s letter to read.
“Well?” asked Ronquerolles.
“She was here at my door at eight o’clock; at a quarter-past eight she had gone. I have lost her, and I love her. Oh! if my life were my own, I could blow my brains out.”