Albert could not see the face of the countess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head, and which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him as though her voice had altered. He could distinguish amid the perfumes of the roses and heliotropes in the flower-stands, the sharp and fragrant odor of volatile salts, and he noticed in one of the chased cups on the mantelpiece the countess’s smelling-bottle, taken from its shagreen case, and exclaimed in a tone of uneasiness, as he entered:
“My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?”
“No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such violent perfumes.”
“Then, my dear mother,” said Albert, putting his hand to the bell, “they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just now were so pale as you came into the room—”
“Was I pale, Albert?”
“Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the less alarm my father and myself.”
“Did your father speak of it?” inquired Mercédès eagerly.
“No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you?”
“Yes, I do remember,” replied the countess.
A servant entered, summoned by Albert’s ring of the bell.
“Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room,” said the viscount; “they make the countess ill.”