The young woman left the salon and passed through several rooms without meeting anybody, for Julie and Baptiste were busy in the kitchen, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s three servants had gone to the village to play goose. She went up to the first floor, where Madame Destival’s bedroom was; but the door was closed and locked.
“She is in her room,” thought the petite-maîtresse; and she knocked gently. There was no reply; she knocked louder. At last Madame Destival asked who was there.
“I, my dear,” Athalie replied. “I came up to have a chat with you.”
“Excuse me, I had dropped asleep; my headache is so much worse——”
“I have one too, and I will lie down in your room a moment; it will do me good.”
“Hasn’t Julie shown you your room?”
“No, my love; let me in, pray.”
Madame de la Thomassinière was determined not to go away, and after some little time she was admitted. Madame Destival appeared with her clothes no more disarranged than was natural in a person who had been lying down. As she went in, Athalie glanced about the room, and her eyes longed to pierce the walls of a small closet at the foot of the bed, the mirrored door of which was tightly closed.
“Oh dear! how my head jumps!” said Madame Destival, putting her hand to her forehead.
“Isn’t it any better?” asked Athalie, seating herself on a couch.