“Oh, Monsieur is not going to drive her away.”
I turned upon her.
“Instead of standing there weeping like a fountain and doing nothing, why aren’t you getting Mademoiselle’s room ready for her?”
“Because Monsieur has the key,” wailed Antoinette.
“That’s true,” said I.
Then I reflected on the futility of converting bedchambers into mausoleums for the living. The room shut up for a year would not be habitable. It would be damp and inch-deep in dust.
“Mademoiselle shall sleep in my room to-night,” I said, “and Stenson can make me up a bed and put what I want here. Go and arrange it with him.”
Antoinette departed. I turned to Carlotta.
“Are you very tired, my child?”
“Oh, yes—so tired.”