He thought the sooner Diane was in some quiet spot the better. He had no idea where she lived.
The horses trotted briskly along, the coachman avoiding the great, thronged thoroughfares. As they drove along, Diane’s composure gradually returned. The color came back to her lips and cheeks, and her tremors stopped.
“It was enough to shake anybody,” said Jean; “I, myself, felt as weak as a cat when I sat down. We have never in our lives heard anything like that. It has not been heard since before Waterloo.”
Diane said little except some murmured reproaches to Jean for not coming to see her.
“All of you forgot me,” she said. “I suppose it was because that tall, red-cheeked, awkward creature who took my place, absorbed you so there was no place even in your memories for me.”
Jean smiled. This was the same Diane.
“No,” he said, “your going seemed to finish up everything. Mademoiselle Rose was not a success. The public did not like her.”
Diane gave a little gasp of vindictive joy.
“That was bad, of course, for the Grandins,” continued Jean, “particularly as they lost François the same night they lost you.”
“How?”