“My dear,” she said, speaking slowly and in English, “I know it all. You adored Neville Tremaine and married him for the best reason in the world—because he asked you. We are not accustomed to what you people in Virginia call love marriages, but I rather like them once in a while when there is a little money back of them. My last marriage was a love marriage, but I had a fine house in New Orleans and a couple of sugar plantations, and my husband had two more sugar plantations and a larger house than mine, so you see we could afford to be sentimental. My first marriage was arranged for me, but I frankly admit that I preferred the last one. It sometimes happens that a second marriage is a first love.”
Angela with Madame Isabey’s fat arm upon her slender one, and the old lady’s dark, bright eyes seeking hers, was inwardly horrified at Madame Isabey’s confidence, but maintained a discreet silence as Madame Isabey prattled on.
“So was Adrienne’s marriage for her, but she is different from me. She didn’t take it kindly. Oh, I don’t mean she objected! My daughter is far too well bred, too well governed, for that. She is superior to me in understanding and everything else, but she was very triste all the time poor Le Noir lived, and when he died, after two years of marriage, Adrienne appeared relieved. That was ten years ago, and I believe she intends to make a love marriage the next time.”
Then, catching a glimpse of Lyddon shambling across the hall to the old study, Madame Isabey darted after him with an activity and grace singularly contrasted with her size and shape.
“Come here, you Mr. Lyddon, you Englishman,” she cried. “Tell Madame Neville Tremaine and me what you think of love marriages.”
“It is a subject upon which I never dare to think,” replied Lyddon in his scholarly French.
“That’s the way with you blessed English,” cried Madame Isabey laughing. “You never think, you only act, you English. I am telling Madame Neville that there are worse things than love marriages, and as for all this racket about her husband remaining in the Union Army, tra la la.”
However astounded Angela might be by Madame Isabey’s frank confessions, her goodness of heart and her desire to make herself acceptable was obvious, nor was she without charms and interest.
When they went into the drawing-room, Colonel Tremaine asked Adrienne if she played.
“Yes,” she replied, smiling, and seating herself at the piano, swept away the music on the rack, and ran her fingers softly over the keys.