Madame de Chassedot rose to meet her “with eyes that had wept,” and extended her hands with an air that asked less for greeting than for sympathy.
“Vous ange de la peine, madame!” exclaimed Berthe, her ready kindness going forth at once to the sufferer.
The two ladies were not friends. They had met at Madame de Beaucœur’s and Madame de Galliac’s; but only once had there been a personal interchange of visits; Madame de Chassedot had called on Berthe to thank her for the kindness she had shown to their young kinswoman, Hélène de Karodel, “whom the family had indeed of late lost sight of, but with whom they were delighted to renew cousinship,” the marquise declared effusively, and as a proof of this she was carrying off Hélène to the country to spend the vacation with them. Berthe did not inform her that it had taken all her own influence to induce the high-spirited young lady to accept the hospitality so tardily offered. She returned Madame de Chassedot’s visit; the latter soon left for the country, and they had not met since.
“Oui, j’ai du chagrin,” said the marquise holding Berthe’s hand, as she sat down beside her.
Berthe’s first thought was of Edgar. But the mother was not in mourning. Whatever it was, the worst had not yet come.
“Your son is ill?” she said.
Madame de Chassedot shook her head. Then, after a pause, during which she gave battle to her emotion, she looked at Berthe, and said:
“He’s going to get married!”
“What! And is not that precisely what you wanted him to do!” exclaimed Berthe.
“I wanted to make the match myself; but now he goes and does it instead,” replied the marquise.