Then she asked gravely:
“My poor young lady, who told you he was going to take you home?”
Molly answered: “Mrs. Laurens, his mother.”
“Oh, how cruel!” the maid cried warmly. “They have deceived you, madame. I have taken pains to find out their plans and now I will give them to you. It is not Mr. Cecil who will take you home. You are to go with the old folks and the daughters. He—your husband—remains behind with the Barrys, and they all three go immediately to Paris. Ah, madame, Paris is so wicked! And the aunt, the chaperone, she is so old, blind, deaf, she will see but little of the goings-on!”
Florine’s shrugs and glances conveyed even more evil than her words.
“Florine, are you sure, quite sure, of all you have told me?” Molly asked in a dejected voice.
“Madame, I am willing to take an oath,” Florine replied glibly, and for a moment there was a deep silence. The maid was afraid that her mistress was going to faint, but Molly sat upright as a statue. Presently she spoke.
“No one could blame me if I went away to my own friends and left him forever, could they, Florine?”
“No one, madame, for you have had provocation enough to drive you desperate; but your friends, where are they?” curiously.
“No matter. I am not utterly friendless, Florine, and since they are trying to drive me desperate, why should I go back to America to please them?” angrily. “Why not stay here with my kindred and spare myself the torture of trying to win back a heart that has passed from my keeping forever?”