“Don’t speak, Isabella—Grace, go into the closet—call Favoretta—hear me, quietly,” said Mad. de Rosier, steadily, for Mrs. Grace was in such confusion of mind, that she was going to call upon the child, without waiting to hear what was said to her.—“Hear me,” said Mad. de Rosier, “or you are undone—go into the closet without making any bustle—call Favoretta, gently; she will not be frightened, when she hears only your voice.”
Grace did as she was ordered, and returned from the closet in a few instants, with Favoretta. Grace instantly began an exculpatory speech, but Mrs. Harcourt, though still trembling, had sufficient firmness to say, “Leave us, Grace, and let me hear the truth from the child.”
Grace left the room. Favoretta related exactly what had happened, and said that when she heard all their voices in the dressing-room, and when she heard Matilda say there’s a noise, she was afraid of being discovered in the closet, and had crept out through a little door, with which she was well acquainted, that opened upon the leads.
Mrs. Harcourt now broke forth into indignant exclamations against Grace. Mad. de Rosier gently pacified her, and hinted that it would be but just to give her a fair hearing in the morning.
“You are always yourself! always excellent!” cried Mrs. Harcourt; “you have saved my child—we none of us had any presence of mind, but yourself.”
“Indeed, mamma, I did ring the bell, however,” said Isabella.
With much difficulty those who had so much to say, submitted to Mad. de Rosier’s entreaty of “Let us talk of it in the morning.” She was afraid that Favoretta, who was present, would not draw any salutary moral from what might be said in the first emotions of joy for her safety. Mad. de Rosier undressed the little girl herself, and took care that she should not be treated as a heroine just escaped from imminent danger.
The morning came, and Mrs. Grace listened, with anxious ear, for the first sound of her mistress’s bell—but no bell rang; and, when she heard Mrs. Harcourt walking in her bedchamber, Grace augured ill of her own fate, and foreboded the decline and fall of her empire.
“If my mistress can get up and dress herself without me, it’s all over with me,” said Grace; “but I’ll make one trial.” Then she knocked with her most obliging knock at her mistress’s door, and presented herself with a Magdalen face—“Can I do any thing for you, ma’am?”
“Nothing, I thank you, Grace. Send Isabella and Matilda.”