CHAPTER IX.
THE BETRAYAL.
The sun was high in the heavens when Laura awoke, and rang for her waiting-woman. Mademoiselle Louise, fresh, smiling, and officious, came at once from the anteroom, and began the toilet of her mistress. She seemed to take more pleasure than usual in gathering her magnificent dark coils into a net of gold and pearls, and to linger more admiringly than ever over the last little touches given to the lace that bordered Laura's neglige of spotless white mull.
She certainly was one of the loveliest of created beings, and so thought good Madame Dupont, as her ex-pupil came into the dining- room, and imprinted two hearty kisses on her withered old cheeks. They sat down together to breakfast, and George, looking as innocent as if he had just awaked from the sleep of the righteous, came in with their morning chocolate. All went on as usual, except with the young marchioness, who, instead of laughing and chatting of Italy, and Bonaletta, as she was accustomed to do with her "dear Dupont," sipped her chocolate in silent abstraction. Breakfast had long been over, and still she sat in her arm-chair, looking dreamily into the garden, her head leaning on her hand, her lips sometimes rippling with a smile, sometimes opening with a gentle sigh.
She had been plunged in her blissful reverie for almost an hour, when the door was opened, and George appeared before her.
"Your ladyship," said he, "a man without desires speech with you."
"Who is he, George?" asked Laura, reluctantly returning to the world and its exigencies.
"He will not say, my lady. He wears no livery, but says that your ladyship knows whence he comes and why. He has a bouquet which was forgotten yesterday evening."
Laura darted from her chair; then, blushing deeply, she stopped, and recalled her wandering senses.
"Admit him," said she, trying to speak carelessly. "I will inquire what this means."