M. Daburon found her in the rose-colored boudoir half undressed, her
hair in disorder, red as a peony, and surrounded by the debris of the
glass and china which had fallen under her hands in the first moments of
her passion. Unfortunately, too, Claire and her governess were gone out.
A maid was occupied in inundating the old lady with all sorts of waters,
in the hope of calming her nerves.
She received Daburon as a messenger direct from Providence. In a little
more than half an hour, she told her story, interlarded with numerous
interjections and imprecations.
"Do you comprehend this judge?" cried she. "He must be some frantic
Jacobin,--some son of the furies, who washed their hands in the blood of
their king. Ah! my friend, I read stupor and indignation in your glance.
He listened to the complaint of that impudent scoundrel whom I enabled
to live by employing him! And when I addressed some severe remonstrances
to this judge, as it was my duty to do, he had me turned out! Do you
hear? turned out!"
At this painful recollection, she made a menacing gesture with her arm.
In her sudden movement, she struck a handsome scent bottle that her maid
held in her hand.
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