“Yes, mademoiselle,” he answered readily, glad that by that question she should have introduced the subject. “I was in time.”
“And Marius?” she inquired. “From what I heard you say, I take it that he has suffered no harm.”
“He has suffered none. I have spared him that he might participate in the joy of his mother at her union with Monsieur de Tressan.”
“I am glad it was so, monsieur. Tell me of it.” Her voice sounded formal and constrained.
But either he did not hear or did not heed the question.
“Mademoiselle,” he said slowly. “Florimond is coming—”
“Florimond?” she broke in, and her voice went shrill, as if with a sudden fear, her cheeks turned white as chalk. The thing that for months she had hoped and prayed for was come at last, and it struck her almost dead with terror.
He remarked the change, and set it down to a natural excitement. He paused a moment. Then:
“He is still at La Rochette. But he does no more than wait until he shall have learned that his stepmother has departed from Condillac.”
“But—why—why—? Was he then in no haste to come to me?” she inquired, her voice faltering.