"Who is it?"
"I am Ange Desaix."
The shrivelled fingers picked at the shrouding shawl. Aline, watching uneasily, saw the pinched face fall into a new arrangement of wrinkles. The mouth opened like a pit, and from it came an attenuated sound. With creeping flesh she realised that this was a laugh—Madame was laughing.
"Ange Desaix, Ange Desaix,—Réné's Angel. Oh, la belle comédie!"
"Madame!" the sound came like a sob, and in a flash Aline guessed how long it was since any one had named Réné de Montenay before this woman who had loved him. After the silence of nearly forty years it stabbed her like a sword thrust.
Again that faint sound like the echo of laughter long dead:
"My compliments, Mlle Desaix. Will you not be seated, and let me know to what I owe the pleasure of this visit? But you are not alone. Who is that with you? Come here!"
Aline crossed the room obediently.
"Who are you?" said the faint voice again, and the burning eyes looked searchingly into her face.
Something stirred in Aline. This old wreck of womanhood was not only of her order, but of her kin. Before she knew it she heard her own voice say: