And the young journalists, standing in the shadow of these eminent noblemen, confirmed the statement: they had been missing her everywhere.
“Fetch Mrs. Uxeley here,” Urania whispered to Gilio. “Cornélie is ill, I think. I can’t leave her here alone. She wants to go to her room. It’s better that Mrs. Uxeley should know, else she might be angry.”
Cornélie was jesting nervously, in feverish gaiety, with the duke and with De Breuil and the journalists.
“Would you rather I took you straight to Mrs. Uxeley?” Gilio whispered.
“I want to go to my room!” she whispered, in a voice of entreaty, behind her fan.
The pavane appeared to be over. The buzz of voices reached them, as though the guests were scattering about the rooms again:
“I see Mrs. Uxeley,” said Gilio.
He went up to her, spoke to her. She simpered at first, leaning on the gold knob of her cane. Then her wrinkles became angrily contracted. She crossed the room. Cornélie went on jesting with the duke; the journalists thought every word witty.
“Aren’t you well?” whispered Mrs. Uxeley, going up to her, ruffled. “What about the cotillon?”
“I will see to everything, Mrs. Uxeley,” said Urania.