"They were wicked women," said Madame. "They thought to take thee in, but they failed."
"Ah, but indeed they were not wicked," said M. le Comte. "They looked young and elegant. How gently did the one who called herself Clotilde support my feeble steps; and how admirable were the manners of the one called Rose. I will amuse myself well this afternoon in telling the story of this queer adventure to _la petite_ Comtesse."
"Please thyself, _mon_ Alphonse; but now lie quietly and rest, while I prepare the bouillon which will nourish thee after those adventures, which only ought to happen to the young."
The entire story was repeated to Margot when she appeared on the scene; but the old man seemed now dull and drowsy and stupid. Perhaps he was too old for adventures--he could not say. As the evening advanced, he talked in a puzzled way of two Marquises called Rose, and two Marquises called Clotilde, and of a "little wonder" in a certain _établissement_. He was decidedly feverish, and Margot held his hand and soothed him as only _she_ knew how.
"Oh the wicked, wicked women," sobbed _la belle_ grand'mère, after the doctor had come and gone. "The wicked, wicked women, to injure _mon_ Alphonse."
When Margot had a minute of time to attend to _la belle_ grand'mère, she told her that the false Marquises were only her hideous old _gouvernantes_ dressed up to look young, and that she herself meant to give them a piece of her mind.
"I mean to spend the entire night with grandpère," she said. "Weep not, _ma belle_ grand'mère. He got a shock, and only _I_ can keep him from being puzzled by the two names--the two names twice over. I will go to him, _ma belle_ grand'mère."
"Yes, go, my blessed child," said the little Madame; and she felt at that moment that even the _dot_ for Margot, and her _établissement_, were as nothing compared to _mon_ Alphonse--_mon_ Alphonse the adorable, the love of her life.
In the morning, the old Comte St. Juste was less feverish, but nevertheless not himself. He had, as he complained, a confused feeling. The world was full of Roses--oh, the most _charmantes_--and of Clotildes equally divine. They were coming up the avenue in automobiles, they were entering the room, they were sitting with him, they were pouring into his ear the fact that his mission was not accomplished. He had gone to the _établissement_, but he had not seen _the little wonder_. He could not rest until he saw her. In vain Margot tried to soothe him. She longed beyond words to quiet his mind by telling him the simple truth--that she was _la petite_, _she_ was the little wonder of the _établissement_ Marcelle. But when she hinted at such a proceeding to _la belle_ grand'mère, that poor woman gave a cry of bitter horror.