All the women snuffed the air and looked alternately at the duchess,
who was talking in an undertone to Canalis over the embroidery-frame,
and then at the young girl so ill brought up as to disturb a lovers'
meeting,--a think not permissible in any society. Diane de
Maufrigneuse nodded, however, as much as to say, "The child is in the
right of it." All the women ended by smiling at each other; they were
enraged with a woman who was fifty-six years old and still handsome
enough to put her fingers into the treasury and steal the dues of
youth. Melchior looked at Modeste with feverish impatience, and made
the gesture of a master to a valet, while the duchess lowered her head
with the movement of a lioness disturbed at a meal; her eyes, fastened
on the canvas, emitted red flames in the direction of the poet, which
stabbed like epigrams, for each word revealed to her a triple insult.
"Monsieur Melchior!" said Modeste again in a voice that asserted its
right to be heard.
"What, mademoiselle?" demanded the poet.
Forced to rise, he remained standing half-way between the embroidery
frame, which was near a window, and the fireplace where Modeste was
seated with the Duchesse de Verneuil on a sofa.
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