“Mademoiselle Eugénie?” said Château-Renaud; “has she returned?”
“No, but her mother.”
“Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!” said Château-Renaud; “only ten days after the flight of her daughter, and three days from the bankruptcy of her husband?”
Debray colored slightly, and followed with his eyes the direction of Beauchamp’s glance.
“Come,” he said, “it is only a veiled lady, some foreign princess, perhaps the mother of Cavalcanti. But you were just speaking on a very interesting topic, Beauchamp.”
“I?”
“Yes; you were telling us about the extraordinary death of Valentine.”
“Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that Madame de Villefort is not here?”
“Poor, dear woman,” said Debray, “she is no doubt occupied in distilling balm for the hospitals, or in making cosmetics for herself or friends. Do you know she spends two or three thousand crowns a year in this amusement? But I wonder she is not here. I should have been pleased to see her, for I like her very much.”
“And I hate her,” said Château-Renaud.
“Why?”
“I do not know. Why do we love? Why do we hate? I detest her, from antipathy.”
“Or, rather, by instinct.”
“Perhaps so. But to return to what you were saying, Beauchamp.”
“Well, do you know why they die so multitudinously at M. de Villefort’s?”
“‘Multitudinously’ is good,” said Château-Renaud.
“My good fellow, you’ll find the word in Saint-Simon.”
“But the thing itself is at M. de Villefort’s; but let’s get back to the subject.”
“Talking of that,” said Debray, “Madame was making inquiries about that house, which for the last three months has been hung with black.”