Giselle was silent. Standing before the hearth, she was warming her small feet, watching, as she did so, Madame d'Argy's profile, which was reflected in the mirror. It was severe—impenetrable. It was Fred who spoke first.
"In the first place," he said, hesitating, "are you sure that
Mademoiselle de Nailles has not just arrived from Monaco?"
"I am certain that for a week she has been living quietly with Modeste, and that, though she passed through Monaco, she did not stay there— twenty-four hours, finding that the air of that place did not agree with her."
"But what do you say to what Monsieur Martel saw with his own eyes, and which is confirmed by public rumor?" cried Madame d'Argy, as if she were giving a challenge.
"Monsieur Martel saw Jacqueline in bad company. She was not there of her own will. As to public rumor, we may feel sure that to make it as flattering to her tomorrow as it is otherwise to-day only a marriage is necessary. Yes, a marriage! That is the way I had thought of to settle everything and make everybody happy."
"What man would marry a girl who had compromised herself?" said Madame d'Argy, indignantly.
"He who has done his part to compromise her."
"Then go and propose it to Monsieur de Cymier!"
"No. It is not Monsieur de Cymier whom she loves."
"Ah!" Madame d'Argy was on her feet at once. "Indeed, Giselle, you are losing your senses. If I were not afraid of agitating Fred—"