Modeste was a pure
young girl, inquisitive after knowledge, understanding her destiny,
and filled with chastity,--the Virgin of Spain rather than the Madonna
of Raphael.
She raised her head when she heard Dumay say to Exupere, "Come here,
young man." Seeing them together in the corner of the salon she
supposed they were talking of some commission in Paris. Then she
looked at the friends who surrounded her, as if surprised by their
silence, and exclaimed in her natural manner, "Why are you not
playing?"--with a glance at the green table which the imposing Madame
Latournelle called the "altar."
"Yes, let us play," said Dumay, having sent off Exupere.
"Sit there, Butscha," said Madame Latournelle, separating the
head-clerk from the group around Madame Mignon and her daughter by
the whole width of the table.
"And you, come over here," said Dumay to his wife, making her sit
close by him.
Madame Dumay, a little American about thirty-six years of age, wiped
her eyes furtively; she adored Modeste, and feared a catastrophe.
"You are not very lively this evening," remarked Modeste.
"We are playing," said Gobenheim, sorting his cards.
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