“Julian!—Julian and Clara!” cried Fleurange, overjoyed. She sprang up at once, forgetting the princess and George, and everything except the unexpected pleasure of seeing these beloved faces again.
Count George stopped her: “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, Steinberg only wished to know when his wife could see you. I took the liberty of telling him that my carriage, which is at the door, would take you at once to the hotel where they are stopping, and he has gone to tell her she will have the pleasure of seeing you this very evening.”
“Oh! how kind you are,” cried Fleurange, beside herself. “How many thanks I owe you!”
But she bethought herself that the princess did not like anything of which she did not take the initiative, and under no circumstances did she ever forget herself. Before the shade that began to gather on her brow could be perceived, Fleurange approached her.
“Monsieur le Comte is very kind,” said she; “but I should do better to wait till morning, should I not, princess? It is only nine o’clock, and you need me at least an hour longer.”
The princess was already partly mollified by these words, and completely so by the grace with which her son protested he should be angry if she did not clearly prove to him that she thought him capable of replacing Mademoiselle Gabrielle at least for an hour.
“Come, mother, you can endure to hear me read in my turn, can you not? I readily acknowledge my powers are not equal to what we have just had. But, if the contrast is disagreeable to you, it will not be the first time we have passed an hour together to our mutual satisfaction, and that I have been able to make my conversation acceptable to you.”
These words, uttered with a caressing grace as he knelt at his mother’s side, appealed directly to the weakest point in her maternal heart. The princess idolized her son. He was the joy and pride of her life. But though full of deference and affection, he was constantly eluding her. This woman, so imperious towards all others, felt she had scarcely any authority over her son, and endeavored to acquire an ascendency over him by all the persuasiveness and skill she possessed, as if this ascendency were not her natural right. Since George returned last he had been more reserved than usual. Hitherto he had been able to frustrate all her efforts to obtain his entire confidence, to which he sometimes yielded, and which amply atoned for the long intervals of reserve so painful to her.
On this occasion she caressingly passed her hand over her son’s beautiful hair, and smilingly replied: “Naughty boy, you know well what to depend upon.” Then turning to Fleurange: “Go. I am quite willing you should go and welcome your cousin. I can for the present do without you. Go, but come back in an hour. I shall expect you at ten,” she added, looking at the clock.
The permission was not very graciously accorded, but Fleurange did not profit by it the less eagerly. She did not leave the room, however, without an involuntary look of gratitude at him who had so well divined her wish, and so successfully seconded it.