you care for his ill-humor. Someone has vexed you; I will allow no one to annoy you.”
“You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you,” replied Madame Danglars; “and what I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you remarked, but which I did not think it worth while to allude to.”
It was evident that Madame Danglars was suffering from that nervous irritability which women frequently cannot account for even to themselves; or that, as Debray had guessed, she had experienced some secret agitation that she would not acknowledge to anyone. Being a man who knew that the former of these symptoms was one of the inherent penalties of womanhood, he did not then press his inquiries, but waited for a more appropriate opportunity when he should again interrogate her, or receive an avowal proprio motu.
At the door of her apartment the baroness met Mademoiselle Cornélie, her confidential maid.
“What is my daughter doing?” asked Madame Danglars.
“She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,” replied Mademoiselle Cornélie.
“Yet I think I hear her piano.”
“It is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle Danglars is in bed.”
“Well,” said Madame Danglars, “come and undress me.”
They entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch, and Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle Cornélie.