Montriveau gave him one of the terrific glances that produced the
effect of an electric shock on men and women alike.
"Is it possible that you have lent yourself to some cruel hoax,
monsieur?" Montriveau exclaimed. "I have just come from Mme de
Langeais' house; the servants say that she is out."
"Then a great misfortune has happened, no doubt," returned the
Vidame, "and through your fault. I left the Duchess at your
door----"
"When?"
"At a quarter to eight."
"Good evening," returned Montriveau, and he hurried home to ask
the porter whether he had seen a lady standing on the doorstep
that evening.
"Yes, my Lord Marquis, a handsome woman, who seemed very much
put out. She was crying like a Magdalen, but she never made a
sound, and stood as upright as a post. Then at last she went,
and my wife and I that were watching her while she could not see
us, heard her say, 'Oh, God!' so that it went to our hearts,
asking your pardon, to hear her say it."
Montriveau, in spite of all his firmness, turned pale at those
few words. He wrote a few lines to Ronquerolles, sent off the
message at once, and went up to his rooms. Ronquerolles came
just about midnight.
Armand gave him the Duchess's letter to read.
"Well?" asked Ronquerolles.
"She was here at my door at eight o'clock; at a quarter-past
eight she had gone. I have lost her, and I love her. Oh! if my
life were my own, I could blow my brains out."
"Pooh, pooh! Keep cool," said Ronquerolles.
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