And yet, as the coach drew nearer to the Rue de Varenne, where Madame d’Argy had her winter residence, a little calm, a little sense returned to Jacqueline.  She did not see how she could dare to enter that house, where probably they cursed her very name.  She would wait in the street with the carriage-blinds pulled down, and Modeste should go in and ask for information.  Five minutes passed—­ten minutes passed—­they seemed ages.  How slow Modeste was, slow as a tortoise!  How could she leave her there when she knew she was so anxious?  What could she be doing?  All she had to do was to ask news of M. Fred in just two words!

At last, Jacqueline could bear suspense no longer.  She opened the coach-door and jumped out on the pavement.  Just at that moment Modeste appeared, brandishing the umbrella that she carried instead of a stick, in a manner that meant something.  It might be bad news, she would know in a moment; anything was better than suspense.  She sprang forward.

“What did they say, Modeste?  Speak!—­Why have you been such a time?”

“Because the servants had something else to do than to attend to me.  I wasn’t the only person there—­they were writing in a register.  Get back into the carriage, Mademoiselle, or somebody will see you—­There are lots of people there who know you—­Monsieur and Madame d’Etaples—­”

“What do I care?—­The truth!  Tell me the truth—­”

“But didn’t you understand my signals?  He is going on well.  It was only a scratch—­Ah!  Madame that’s only my way of talking.  He will be laid up for a fortnight.  The doctor was there—­he has some fever, but he is not in any danger.”

“Oh! what a blessing!  Kiss me, Modeste.  We have a fortnight in which we may interfere—­But how—­Oh, how?—­Ah! there is Giselle!  We will go to Giselle at once!”

And the ‘fiacre’ was ordered to go as fast as possible to the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy.  This time Jacqueline herself spoke to the concierge.

“Madame la Comtesse is out.”

“But she never goes out at this hour.  I wish to see her on important business.  I must see her.”

And Jacqueline passed the concierge, only to encounter another refusal from a footman, who insisted that Madame la Comtesse was at home to no one.

“But me, she will see me.  Go and tell her it is Mademoiselle de Nailles.”

Moved by her persistence, the footman went in to inquire, and came back immediately with the answer: 

“Madame la Comtesse can not see Mademoiselle.”

“Ah!” thought Jacqueline, “she, too, throws me off, and it is natural.  I have no friends left.  No one will tell me anything!—­I think it will drive me mad?”