“Introduce Madame,” she said to the girl, “Madame’s fille de chambre must wait without.”
The visitor, André decided, was young. Her trim figure, the coquettish pose of her head, the graceful dignity of her carriage filled him with the liveliest regret that he could not see her face, which was thickly veiled. She came to an abrupt halt in the centre of the room—for the woman on the sofa never stirred. Clearly she, too, had expected something very different.
“Your name, Madame?” asked the sorceress abruptly.
“Mademoiselle, if it please you,” the visitor corrected, “Mademoiselle Lucie Marie Villefranche.”
André was listening now with all his ears. Where before had he heard that crisp, alluring voice?
“Bien, Madame.”
“Mademoiselle—” persisted the visitor, nettled.
“Then why does Mademoiselle wear a wedding-ring?”
The visitor made an impatient movement, bit her lip, and petulantly drew off her glove. On the hand she triumphantly held out there was no sign of a wedding-ring.
“It is in Madame’s pocket,” the sorceress said calmly. “But it is of as little importance as is Madame’s husband to her.”