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And Sylvia sat up in bed relieved of her nightmare. It was eight o'clock! She had overslept herself. Félicie was bringing in her tea, and on the tray lay a letter addressed in a handwriting Sylvia did not know, and on which was a French stamp. She turned the pale-grey envelope over doubtfully, wondering if it was really meant for her.
Felicie, who received for the first time in her life the compliments of a man, listened to this language, always sweet however deceptive; she took emptiness for depth, and needing an object on which to fix the vague emotions of her heart, she allowed the lawyer to occupy her mind.
Félicie assured him that she had never been more than passive in her intercourse with Girmandel, that she had not even pretended to care for him. He believed her, and this belief gave him the keenest satisfaction. She also told him that for a long time past, for months, Girmandel had been nothing more than a friend, and he believed her.
Now all that sort of thing we can save you here is my wedding paraphernalia all at your service patterns ready cut and here is Felicie, whose whole French soul is in the toilette and there is your own little maid, who has hands, and head, and heart, all devoted to you so leave it to us leave it to us, my dear take no thought what you shall put on and you will put it on all the better."
Etienne, prompted by the wily notary, had pledged his word that he had no natural children, no tie that could endanger the happiness of her dear Felicie. "You may perhaps think I go rather too far," said the bigot to the journalist; "but in giving such a jewel as my Felicie to any man, one must think of the future. I am not one of those mothers who want to be rid of their daughters.
"You don't know her, Monsieur Jarrett," I heard her say. "If she thought you were forcing the door open, against which she has pushed the furniture, she would jump out of the window!" Then I heard Felicie talking to a French lady who was insisting on seeing me. "It is quite impossible," she was saying. "Madame would be quite hysterical. She needs an hour's rest, and every one must wait!"
Chatterton stole out of the little reading-room next to them and shut herself up in her own apartment. "Dear me, how fine that doll's gown is to be, Polly," exclaimed Alexia after a bit. "Is the lace going on all around the bottom?" "Yes," said Polly, biting off her thread, and giving the muslin breadths a little shake; "Felicie is tucking the flounce; then I shall have to sew on the lace."
But neither Madame Bourmdernoot of Brussels, tall and fresh looking, nor the sisters Van Cruysen, milliners on the Vijver, nor Suzette Berger of the Folies-Marigny, then on tour through Northern Europe, had given him a sense of pleasure in its completeness. When in their company he had regretted Félicie, and had discovered that of all women, he desired her alone.
While Madame Nanteuil conceived and gave expression to bright and cheerful ideas, Félicie was fast becoming gloomy, fretful, and sullen. Lines began to show in her pretty face; her voice assumed a grating quality.
Then, passing into the garden they sat down on the bench where generation after generation had confided to listening hearts their words of love, their sighs of grief, their meditations and their projects. In spite of her sister's joyous tone and lively manner, Felicie experienced a sensation that was very like fear. Marguerite took her hand and felt it tremble.
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