"Come, my good man, get out of the way."
And her haughty, irritated accent made the poor servant tremble and at a
loss to stop this invasion of rustling skirts and strong perfumes. In
one of her evolutions the fair lady ran into an Italian mosaic table, on
the center of which was the old jar. Her glance fell instinctively to
the bottom of the jar.
It was only an instant, but enough for her woman's curiosity to
recognize the blue envelopes with white borders, whose sealed ends stuck
out, untouched, from the pile of cards. The last straw! Her paleness
grew intense, almost greenish, and she started forward with such a rush
that the servant could not stop her and was left behind her, dejected,
confused, fearful of his master's wrath.
Renovales, alarmed by the sharp click of heels on the hard floor, and
the rustling of skirts, turned toward the door just as the countess made
her entrance with a dramatic expression.
"It's me."
"You? You, dear?"
Excitement, surprise, fear made the master stammer.
"Sit down," he said coldly.
She sat down on a couch and the artist remained standing in front of
her.
They looked at each other as if they did not recognize each other after
this absence of weeks which weighed on their memories as if it were of
years.
Renovales looked at her coldly, without the least tremble of desire, as
if it were an ordinary visitor whom he must get rid of as soon as
possible. He was surprised at her greenish pallor, at her mouth, drawn
with irritation, at her hard eyes which flashed yellow flames, at her
nose which curved down to her upper lip.
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