The request was complied with, and the two ladies were soon absorbed in each other.
“What shall we do to amuse ourselves this week, chère madame? For Wednesday we have La Beauté du Diable with a diner fin au cabaret, and a petit souper at Tortoni’s; but what shall we do to kill the other three days?” demanded the princess, who had risen to go, and now pounced upon Berthe, who stood taking leave of some guests at the door.
“I haven’t an idea just at present; we will talk it over to-morrow night at Madame de Beaucœur’s. But you must not count on me for Wednesday,” said Berthe, “I have changed my mind about going.”
“What! You are going to play us false!” exclaimed the princess, her ugly but expressive features lighting up with irresistible humor, while her eyes shot out a cold, sardonic glance into Berthe’s. “That old perruque has put you out of conceit with it? But, no! It’s too absurd, ma chère!”
“Absurd or not, I don’t intend to go,” said Berthe resolutely. “I’m not so brave as you are. I do not want to risk myself.”
“But all Paris will laugh at you. They will say you have turned dévote. For mercy’s sake, my child, do not make such a fool of yourself!”
“Paris may say what it likes,” answered Berthe, bridling up, while a blush of defiant pride suffused her cheek. “I despise its gossip, and, in short, I don’t mean to go.”
“Seriously?”
“Quite seriously.”