"Oh! decidedly up-to-date!—And so convenient!" she said, as she heard the young girls laugh when they finished their love-letters.
Then she began to write, having surely found the expressions she sought. She sent Rosas a letter of apology: she would be at his house to-morrow at the same hour. To-day, her uncle took up her day, compelling her to go to see his paintings, to visit the Louvre, to buy draperies for an Oriental scene that he intended to paint. If Rosas did not receive the letter in time, it mattered little! To Lissac,—and this was the main consideration,—she intimated that she would call on him the next morning at ten o'clock.
"Rendezvous box!" she said, as she slipped her two letters into the letter-box. "This extreme comfort is very ironical."
She smiled as she thought how long it would take to count the number of the little hands, some trembling, some bold, that had slipped into the rectilinear mouth of the letter-box some little missive that was either the foretaste or the postscript of adultery.
Then she went downstairs and rejoined Vaudrey, who was impatiently tapping the floor of the carriage with his foot.
"I was a long time there, I ask your pardon," said Marianne.
"At any rate, I hope you have bought something that suited you?" asked Vaudrey, who seemed to have caught a cold.
"Nothing at all. There is nothing in that store!"
Vaudrey was alarmed. Were they to visit one after the other all the fancy goods stores?
Marianne took pity on him.