"_An equal?_ Of course, most certainly!" answered the countess, aghast.
The amazement of the count, Maurice, and Bertha, sealed their lips.
"Her taste, her talent, her invention is something almost supernatural," continued the marchioness, enthusiastically; for, now that she was launched upon her favorite theme, she had forgotten her haste. "She sees at a glance all the good points of a figure; she knows how to bring them out strongly; she discovers by intuition what is lacking, and dexterously hides the defects. I have seen her convert the veriest dowdy into an elegant woman. And, when she gets a subject that pleases her, she perfectly revels in her art. Look at this dress for instance,--see by what delicate combinations it announces the spring."
The marchioness was struck with the consternation depicted in the countenances of her visitors.
Bertha was the only one who could command sufficient voice to falter out, "That dress, then"--
"It is her invention," replied the marchioness, triumphantly. "Any one would recognize it in a moment, as coming from the hands of Mademoiselle Melanie. Though she has such wonderful creative fertility, her style is unmistakable. There was never mantua-maker like her!"
"_A mantua-maker! a mantua-maker!_" exclaimed the countess and her son at once, in accents of disgust and indignation.
"Ah, I see you do not like to apply that epithet to her, and you are right. She should not be designated as a mantua-maker, but a great artist,--a true artist,--a fairy, who, with one touch of her wand, can metamorphose and beautify and amaze!"
At that moment, a servant announced that the Countess Orlowski waited in her carriage, and desired him to say that she feared she was late.
"You will excuse me then?" murmured the marchioness. "I must hasten to execute my mission for Mademoiselle Melanie, since it was she who so warmly solicited me to undertake this delicate little transaction, and I would not disappoint her for the world. Pray, do not forget to-morrow evening. _Au revoir._"
She floated out of the room, leaving the countess and her son speechless with rage and indignation.
Bertha and Maurice stood looking at each other, and then at M. de Bois, the only one who expressed no surprise, but seemed rather more gratified than moved when he beheld the countess sink back in her chair, and apply her bottle of sal volatile to her nose. The shock to her pride had been so terrible, that she appeared to be in danger of fainting.