She
admitted the visitor, though she could not conceal her anxious surprise
at her boldness in calling in such slatternly garb. However, on the very
threshold of the little salon, Madame Theodore stopped short in
wonderment herself, for her sister Hortense was sobbing and crouching on
one of the armchairs, upholstered in blue repp, of which she was so
proud.
"What is the matter? What has happened to you?" asked Madame Theodore.
Her sister, though scarcely two and thirty, was no longer "the beautiful
Hortense" of former days. She retained a doll-like appearance, with a
tall slim figure, pretty eyes and fine, fair hair. But she who had once
taken so much care of herself, had now come down to dressing-gowns of
doubtful cleanliness. Her eyelids, too, were reddening, and blotches were
appearing on her skin. She had begun to fade after giving birth to two
daughters, one of whom was now nine and the other seven years of age.
Very proud and egotistical, she herself had begun to regret her marriage,
for she had formerly considered herself a real beauty, worthy of the
palaces and equipages of some Prince Charming. And at this moment she was
plunged in such despair, that her sister's sudden appearance on the scene
did not even astonish her: "Ah! it's you," she gasped. "Ah! if you only
knew what a blow's fallen on me in the middle of all our worries!"
Madame Theodore at once thought of the children, Lucienne and Marcelle.
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