He was standing before the fireplace, seeking
for an address in a small china plate filled with visiting cards. At
the sound of the opening of the door, at the rustling of a silk dress
gliding by the window, he did not take the trouble to move, nor deign
even to turn his head. He contented himself with merely casting a
careless glance into the mirror.
But he immediately started with a movement of dismay, as if he had seen
a ghost. In his confusion, he dropped the card-plate, which fell noisily
on to the hearth, and broke into a thousand pieces.
"Claire!" he stammered, "Claire!"
And as if he feared equally either being deceived by an illusion or
actually seeing her whose name he had uttered, he turned slowly round.
It was truly Mademoiselle d'Arlange. This young girl, usually so proud
and reserved, had had the courage to come to his house alone, or almost
so, for her governess, whom she had left in the ante-room, could hardly
count. She was evidently obeying some powerful emotion, since it made
her forget her habitual timidity.
Never, even in the time when a sight of her was his greatest happiness,
had she appeared to him more fascinating.
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