"Send Miretta to me!" she said to a servant whom she met; then, having no longer any motive for concealing her feelings, she abandoned herself to chagrin, wrath, mortification; she tore whatever was within reach of her hand; she spurned and broke everything that came in her way.
Miretta soon appeared before her mistress. For some time past, Miretta had been sad and pensive. Wherever she might be, her brow was pale and anxious, and her eyes expressed grief and discouragement; she was no longer the pretty and piquant brunette who fascinated all eyes. Grief soon works havoc with beauty.
"Mademoiselle sent for me, and I am here," she said in a low tone, bending her head before her mistress.
"Yes, come in; close that door, so that I may speak, so that I may at last give full vent to my feelings, without constraint."
"Mademoiselle is much agitated! Has anything happened to grieve her?"
"Oh, yes! yes! I am suffering acutely; I feel deeply humiliated! I cannot tell you all that I feel; I do not know myself what is taking place in my heart; but I would like to be able to avenge myself!—Miretta, that man who was to be my husband—at least, such was the wish of both our families—that Léodgard de Marvejols, is married—married to the girl Bathilde, the daughter of a bath keeper! he, the descendant of an illustrious family! Do you understand?—do you realize what a terrible affront he has put upon me?—To marry Mademoiselle Bathilde Landry, he disdained, he refused, the hand of Valentine de Mongarcin!—Ah! that thought drives me frantic—it suffocates me, it makes my nerves tingle! Give me water—water—quickly! It seems to me as if I were choking."
Miretta waited upon her young mistress with the most zealous attention. Valentine soon became calmer, and even smiled at her maid, saying:
"I feel better now—thanks, Miretta! In truth, I was very foolish to make myself ill over that man; that is not the way to be avenged! But to marry that Bathilde—who would ever have believed it of him?"
"And the white plume you sent her, mademoiselle?"
"I believe that instead of ruining the girl, it simply helped to make her a countess!—She! she! Comtesse de Marvejols! I cannot accustom myself to the idea. And yet, it would seem that he no longer loves her. Just imagine that on the very day of their marriage Léodgard left this Bathilde! She lives in the hôtel on Place Royale, and the count continues to occupy his house in Rue de Bretonvilliers; and since the day that he contracted that shameful marriage he has not been once to visit his wife!"