Fleurange wore a plain dress of black silk. In the present state of her wardrobe, she would have been embarrassed if required to increase the elegance of her toilet, but she had not thought of it on the present occasion, after hearing the princess say she intended dining in her morning dress. She was, therefore, somewhat surprised to see the garment thus designated was a flowing robe of white cashmere richly embroidered with gold. Her coiffure was a tissue of lace and gold, and she wore on her neck six strings of magnificent pearls which hung down over her waist. But what surprised and disconcerted the young girl more was the dissatisfied look the princess gave her when she appeared. It was the first time the kind and cordial greeting to which she had become accustomed was wanting.
But it was no time to give or receive any explanations, for the princess was not alone. There were two or three guests whose names Fleurange afterwards learned: an old savant named Dom Pomponio; Signor Livio, a young artist: and the Marquis Trombelli, who was somewhat of a bore. To tell the truth, they occupied an inferior rank among the habitués of the palace, but they preserved the mistress of the house from the mortification of seeing the products of her cook’s skill waste their sweetness on the desert air, as well as the danger of dining without a sufficient number of guests in a vast room, where a tête-à-tête with Fleurange would have been unsatisfactory. Not that she was by any means indifferent to the quality of those she received in her drawing-rooms, but with respect to her convives she attached almost as much importance to their number as to their worth, and only required in return the ability of appreciating the exquisite dishes placed before them.
Notwithstanding the simplicity of her dress, Fleurange did not escape notice. The man of letters talked a little more than usual with the hope of dazzling her; the marquis directed his eye-glass towards her several times; and the young artist ventured on some words complimentary in their tone, but as she only replied in monosyllables the conversation languished. The evening seemed long, and the princess had yawned more than once, when she was suddenly roused at hearing announced—the Marquis Adelardi! She made a joyful exclamation.
The gentleman who appeared was about forty years of age. Fleurange afterwards learned he was a Milanais. She immediately perceived he was one of those men who converse well on every subject, and know how to excite an interest in what they are talking about, whether it be fashionable gossip, a political novelty, or a social and literary question, and who have no other fault than that of treating these subjects as if they were all of equal interest!
The atmosphere of the room at once changed. The Marquis Adelardi had not been there a quarter of an hour before he found means of setting off the indifferent elements of the circle to the best advantage, making each one talk of what he knew the best. He passed from politics to history, from the sciences to the arts, showing himself capable of conversing on all these subjects, if not of sounding their depths.
Fleurange silently listened to this conversation, which amused her, but her interest redoubled and changed its nature when the new-comer, drawing near the princess’ arm-chair, said:
“And when are we to see our George again?”
The princess replied in a pleased and yet half-anxious tone: “We shall see him again soon, for the letter I received from him this morning, written at St. Petersburg, announced his return at the end of this month.”
“So much the better, I miss him everywhere, and every way, here.”
“And I assure you I do also, as you may imagine,” said the princess, with a thoughtful air, as she played with her necklace of pearls. “Nevertheless, Adelardi, you know as well as I it would be better for him to remain where he is till the end of the year.”