She raised her head, and looked at her aunt, who stood silently regarding her. The latter was decidedly ugly—astonishingly so, yet even before she spoke or smiled there was an expression more desirable than beauty visibly imprinted on her face, otherwise devoid of all charm—an expression of intelligence and kindness.
“Remain here perfectly quiet, will you?” said Madame Dornthal, tutoyant Fleurange as if she had known her from childhood.[160]
“There, look at the clock; a quarter of an hour will be sufficient. Do not try to talk, only listen to me.
You are at home, you must understand: remember that. No thanks are necessary. You are one of our children. We had five: now we have six. It was Clement, my oldest son, who went to meet you, because his father could not leave the children this evening. You saw Hilda and Clara at your arrival, as well as the two little ones, Fritz and Frida, who were also there to receive you. There is Gabrielle besides: that is all. Your uncle has mourned so much for his poor sister Margaret! Now he has found her again, it is a happy day for us all!”
Fleurange quietly wiped away her tears without replying. Just then some one knocked at the door.
“Who is there?”
“It is I.”
It was Clement with a cup of coffee, which, at her aunt’s injunction, Fleurange drank with docility.
“Will you now go up to your room for the night, or will you return to the drawing-room among the others?”
Fleurange replied without any hesitation: “I prefer to go back to the drawing-room and see them all, at once.”