"Oh, nothing," replied the Baroness. "Adelaide has sat up late
for some nights to finish some little piece of woman's work, and
would not listen to me when I told her that a day more or less
did not matter----"
Hippolyte was not listening. As he looked at these two noble,
calm faces, he blushed for his suspicions, and ascribed the loss
of his purse to some unknown accident.
This was a delicious evening to him, and perhaps to her too.
There are some secrets which young souls understand so well.
Adelaide could read Hippolyte's thoughts. Though he could not
confess his misdeeds, the painter knew them, and he had come back
to his mistress more in love, and more affectionate, trying thus
to purchase her tacit forgiveness. Adelaide was enjoying such
perfect, such sweet happiness, that she did not think she had
paid too dear for it with all the grief that had so cruelly
crushed her soul. And yet, this true concord of hearts, this
understanding so full of magic charm, was disturbed by a little
speech of Madame de Rouville's.
"Let us have our little game," she said, "for my old friend
Kergarouet will not let me off."
These words revived all the young painter's fears; he colored as
he looked at Adelaide's mother, but he saw nothing in her
countenance but the expression of the frankest good-nature; no
double meaning marred its charm; its keenness was not
perifidious, its humor seemed kindly, and no trace of remorse
disturbed its equanimity.
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