The lady covered her face with her hands. It would, perhaps, be rash to say that she cried; but, at least, she seemed to cry, and if it was only seeming, she did it very well.
"Victor," again inquired the Vicomte of his friend, "is it possible that this is true?"
M. Berigny wagged his finger in the Vicomte's face.
"D'Humières, it now becomes a question of hats." The Vicomte laid his hand on his companion's arm.
"One instant, Victor--still one instant more."
The lady, uncovering her eyes--which actually were sparkling with tears--continued to address the artist.
"Monsieur, I will not speak to you of my love for my husband--my Philippe! I will not speak to you of how we have been parted for a year--a whole, long year--mon Dieu, Monsieur, mon Dieu! I will not speak to you of how, every instant of that long, long year I have thought of him, of how I have yearned for him, of how I have longed for one touch of his hand, one word from his lips, one glance from his eyes. No, Monsieur, I will not speak to you of all these things. And for this reason: That, with me all things are finished. I go, never to return again. My face--you have made immortal; the rest of me--will perish. For the woman whose heart is broken there remains but one place--the grave. It is to that place I go!"
The lady had become as tragic as her husband--even more so, in her way. She moved across the room with the air of a tragedy queen--Parisian. The Vicomte was visibly affected. He fastened a convulsive clutch upon M. Berigny's arm.
"Victor, tell me, what shall I do? Advise me, oh, my friend! This is a critical moment in my life! It is impossible that I should let her go. Antoinette!"
The Vicomte advanced, just in time, between the lady and the door.