“For the love of God, what is the matter?”
“Ah! would that I could spare you this trouble! Your father has just received a letter from Mme. de Lorcy.”
Antoinette grew more attentive, her breath came quickly. “And what was there in this letter that is so terrible, so heart-rending?” she asked, forcing a smile.
“Fortunately, I am here,” replied Mlle. Moiseney. “You know that your joys and your sorrows are mine. All the consolation that I can lavish upon you, the tenderest sympathy—”
“My dear Joan, in the name of Heaven, explain first, and then console!”
“You told me nothing, my child—I have a right to complain; but I have divined all. I can read your heart. I am sure that you love him.”
“Of whom do you speak?” replied Antoinette, whose colour rose in her cheeks.
“Of a most charming man, who, either through inconceivable stupidity, or through most criminal calculation, neglected to tell us that he was married.”
And with these words, Mlle. Moiseney extended both arms, that she might receive into them Mlle. Moriaz, whom she believed to be already swooning.
Mlle. Moriaz did not swoon. She flushed crimson, then grew very pale; but she remained standing, her head proudly erect, and she said, in a tone of well-feigned indifference: “Oh! M. Larinski is married? My very sincere compliments to the Countess Larinski.”