When the coffee was taken, the cups carried away, and my sister also, there was a short silence. The Duc de Morny rose to take his leave, but my mother begged him to stay. “You will be able to advise us,” she urged, and the duke took his seat again near my aunt with whom it seemed to me he was carrying on a slight flirtation.
Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery frame in front of her, and her beautiful, clear-cut profile showing to advantage against the light. She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was about to be discussed. The hideous notary was standing up by the chimney-piece, and my uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis seemed to be the exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them had the same bourgeois mind and were equally stubborn and obstinate. They were both devoted to whist and good wine, and they both agreed that I was thin enough for a scarecrow.
The door opened and a pale, dark-haired woman entered, a most poetical-looking and charming creature. It was Mme. Guérard, “the lady of the upstairs flat,” as Marguerite always called her. My mother had made friends with her in rather a patronizing way certainly, but Mme. Guérard was devoted to me and endured the little slights to which she was treated, very patiently, for my sake. She was tall and slender as a lath, very compliant and demure. She had come down without a hat; she was wearing an indoor gown of indienne with a design of little brown leaves.
M. Meydieu muttered something, I did not catch what. The abominable notary made a very curt bow to Mme. Guérard. The Duc de Morny was very gracious, for the newcomer was so pretty. My godfather merely bent his head, as Mme. Guérard was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine glanced at her from head to foot. Mlle. De Brabender shook hands cordially with her, for Mme. Guérard was fond of me. My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a chair, and asked her to sit down, and then inquired in a kindly way about her husband, a savant, with whom my uncle collaborated sometimes for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.”
Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for Mme. Guérard did not prefer my sister to me.
“Well, as we have come here on account of this child,” said my godfather, “we must begin and discuss what is to be done with her.”
I began to tremble and drew closer to Mlle. De Brabender, and to “ma petite dame,” as I had always called Mme. Guérard from my infancy. They each took my hand by way of encouraging me.
“Yes,” continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh, “it appears you want to be a nun.”
“Ah, indeed?” said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine.
“Sh....” she retorted with a laugh. Mamma sighed and held her wools up close to her eyes to match them.