Monsieur de Valois.  “Are you married?”

Monsieur de Troisville.  “Yes, for the last sixteen years, to a daughter of the Princess Scherbellof.”

Mademoiselle Cormon fainted; du Bousquier, who saw her stagger, sprang forward and received her in his arms; some one opened the door and allowed him to pass out with his enormous burden.  The fiery republican, instructed by Josette, found strength to carry the old maid to her bedroom, where he laid her out on the bed.  Josette, armed with scissors, cut the corset, which was terribly tight.  Du Bousquier flung water on Mademoiselle Cormon’s face and bosom, which, released from the corset, overflowed like the Loire in flood.  The poor woman opened her eyes, saw du Bousquier, and gave a cry of modesty at the sight of him.  Du Bousquier retired at once, leaving six women, at the head of whom was Madame Granson, radiant with joy, to take care of the invalid.

What had the Chevalier de Valois been about all this time?  Faithful to his system, he had covered the retreat.

“That poor Mademoiselle Cormon,” he said to Monsieur de Troisville, gazing at the assembly, whose laughter was repressed by his cool aristocratic glances, “her blood is horribly out of order; she wouldn’t be bled before going to Prebaudet (her estate),—­and see the result!”

“She came back this morning in the rain,” said the Abbe de Sponde, “and she may have taken cold.  It won’t be anything; it is only a little upset she is subject to.”

“She told me yesterday she had not had one for three months, adding that she was afraid it would play her a trick at last,” said the chevalier.

“Ha! so you are married?” said Jacquelin to himself as he looked at Monsieur de Troisville, who was quietly sipping his coffee.

The faithful servant espoused his mistress’s disappointment; he divined it, and he promptly carried away the liqueurs of Madame Amphoux, which were offered to a bachelor, and not to the husband of a Russian woman.

All these details were noticed and laughed at.  The Abbe de Sponde knew the object of Monsieur de Troisville’s journey; but, absent-minded as usual, he forgot it, not supposing that his niece could have the slightest interest in Monsieur de Troisville’s marriage.  As for the viscount, preoccupied with the object of his journey, and, like many husbands, not eager to talk about his wife, he had had no occasion to say he was married; besides, he would naturally suppose that Mademoiselle Cormon knew it.

Du Bousquier reappeared, and was questioned furiously.  One of the six women came down soon after, and announced that Mademoiselle Cormon was much better, and that the doctor had come.  She intended to stay in bed, as it was necessary to bleed her.  The salon was now full.  Mademoiselle Cormon’s absence allowed the ladies present to discuss the tragi-comic scene—­embellished, extended, historified, embroidered, wreathed, colored, and adorned—­which had just taken place, and which, on the morrow, was destined to occupy all Alencon.