We reached the house and passed through the door, which stood wide open.
Crossing the hall, we found ourselves in a small square room, furnished
with rose-colored hangings. Here supper was spread. Gustave walked up to
the table. The duchess flung herself into an armchair. She had taken her
handkerchief out of her pocket, and she held it in front of her lips and
seemed to be biting it. Her eyebrows were raised, and her face displayed a
comical mixture of amusement and apprehension. A glance of her eyes at me
invited me to share the perilous jest, in which Gustave's demeanor
appeared to bear the chief part.

Gustave stood by the table, regarding it with a puzzled air.

"One--two--three!" he exclaimed aloud, counting the covers laid.

The duchess said nothing, but her eyebrows mounted a little higher, till
they almost reached her clustering hair.

"One--two--three?" repeated Gustave, in unmistakable questioning. "Does
Claire remain upstairs?"

Appeal--amusement--fright--shame--triumph--chased one another across the
eyes of Mme. de Saint-Maclou: each made so swift an appearance, so swift
an exit, that they seemed to blend in some peculiar personal emotion
proper to the duchess and to no other woman born. And she bit the
handkerchief harder than ever. For the life of me I couldn't help it; I
began to laugh; the duchess' face disappeared altogether behind the
handkerchief.

"Do you mean to say Claire's not here?" cried Gustave, turning on her
swiftly and accusingly.