Mademoiselle Dubuisson was at home. Denyse thought she looked sad, and her eyes had dark circles round them.
"What is the matter now?" she asked. "There's something wrong."
"That I think he has got--well--a little cool. But there is something else that has upset me to-day."
"Oh, well! it is an event that really does not concern me at all; but it has made me feel wretched all the same." She avoided looking at Bijou as she continued: "You know that--Lisette Renaud?"
"People think she killed herself," said Jeanne, almost in a whisper.
"By taking morphia. You know they could not go into details before me, but I understood, from what they were saying, that it was after an explanation she had had with M. de Bernès."
"Yesterday after the theatre, or else this morning. Papa and M. Spiegel were talking of it at luncheon; but in a vague sort of way, so that I should not understand."
"How fearfully sad!--I can quite understand that it should have upset you."
"Yes; it is only natural, and all the more so as, just now, troubles from love affairs touch me very nearly--and for a good reason!" she added, with a sad little smile.
"That poor little actress!" said Bijou, in a tone of regret. "As a rule, I don't care much for women who are on the stage, but this one seemed to be nice, and then, she really did sing well--it is a pity!--M. de Bernès must be wretched!"
"Do you think people really are so wretched when they cause others to suffer?" asked Jeanne, still not looking at Bijou. "I don't think they are! There are the thoughtless people, who make others suffer without knowing it, and then there are the others, who cause people to suffer because it amuses them; and neither the former nor the latter know what it is to feel remorse--"
As Jeanne stood still, lost in thought, a far-away look in her eyes, Bijou stroked her friend's face gently.
"There, don't think any more about these sad things, Jeanne, dear," she said. "Your grief won't change anything when the mischief is already done, and you are making yourself wretched all in vain. Come, now, let us talk about our play, and about dress, or no matter what--oh! by the bye, about dress, does yours fit well at last?"
"No, it's very natural, on the contrary! I have not your complexion, remember! I am paler than you are, and that pink makes me paler still; and then I am thin, and the little gathered bodice, which shows up your pretty figure to perfection, makes me look no figure at all--it does not matter, though--it's of no importance whatever!"