"And your happiness is that of your friends," bowed the Vicomte.
Mme de Montargis' congratulations were polite, if a trifle perfunctory. The convenances demanded that one should simulate an interest in the affairs of one's acquaintances, but in reality, and at this hour of the day, how they did bore one! And Marie de Maillé, with her soft airs, and that insufferable Adèle of hers, whom she had always spoilt so abominably. It was a little too much! One had affairs of one's own. With the fretful expression of half an hour before she drew a letter from beneath her pillow.
"I too have news to impart," she said, with rather a pinched smile. "News that concerns you very closely, M. le Vicomte," and she fixed her eyes on Sélincourt.
"That concerns me?"
"But yes, Monsieur, since what concerns Mademoiselle your betrothed must concern you, and closely, as I said."
"Mademoiselle my betrothed, Mlle de Rochambeau!" he cried quickly. "Is she then ill?"
Mme de Montargis smiled maliciously.
"Hark to the anxious lover! But calm yourself, my friend, she is certainly not ill, or she would not now be on her way to Paris."
"To Paris?"
"That, Monsieur, is, I believe, her destination."