"Aren't you mistaken in the date, my dear?" he said. "We were surely going to the Gymnase to-morrow night to see the new piece of Octave Feuillet."
"No, my dear; that is for the day after to-morrow."
"I thought that—I ordered the box myself."
"It is for the day after to-morrow, I tell you."
Upon which Monsieur subsided and got no further explanation of the riddle until dinner was over. Madame de Mercerey's exertions did not stop at that. She took possession of Monsieur de Martelle-Simieuse, and treated him to a eulogy of me.
"Irene de Léoty is just the girl to suit you—just the wife you want. The meeting this morning was clearly the work of Providence."
He repeated as refrain:
"How well she rides."
Yesterday, after having seen mama, Madame de Mercerey, in spite of her migraine, courageously set to work and took the field to get people together—engaged musicians and got programs printed. What admirable activity!
On what insignificant trifles our destiny hangs. If Virginie had fastened my hair up properly, if Triboulet had been quiet, if the Puymarins had not put the Mercereys among the nobodies—Monsieur de Martelle-Simieuse would not have been invited to dine at our house to-morrow, and I should not be asking myself the question: