Arsène Lupin | Page 8

being the cousin and heir of
the Duke, Relzieres would have assumed the title, and I should have
been Duchess just the same," said Germaine triumphantly.
"Evidently that was all that mattered," said Jeanne. "Well, dear, I must
be off. We've promised to run in to see the Comtesse de Grosjean. You
know the Comtesse de Grosjean?"
She spoke with an air of careless pride, and rose to go.
"Only by name. Papa used to know her husband on the Stock Exchange
when he was still called simply M. Grosjean. For his part, papa
preferred to keep his name intact," said Germaine, with quiet pride.
"Intact? That's one way of looking at it. Well, then, I'll see you in Paris.
You still intend to start to-morrow?" said Jeanne.
"Yes; to-morrow morning," said Germaine.
Jeanne and Marie slipped on their dust-coats to the accompaniment of
chattering and kissing, and went out of the room.
As she closed the door on them, Germaine turned to Sonia, and said: "I
do hate those two girls! They're such horrible snobs."
"Oh, they're good-natured enough," said Sonia.
"Good-natured? Why, you idiot, they're just bursting with envy of

me--bursting!" said Germaine. "Well, they've every reason to be," she
added confidently, surveying herself in a Venetian mirror with a petted
child's self-content.
CHAPTER II
THE COMING OF THE CHAROLAIS
Sonia went back to her table, and once more began putting wedding-
cards in their envelopes and addressing them. Germaine moved
restlessly about the room, fidgeting with the bric-a-brac on the cabinets,
shifting the pieces about, interrupting Sonia to ask whether she
preferred this arrangement or that, throwing herself into a chair to read
a magazine, getting up in a couple of minutes to straighten a picture on
the wall, throwing out all the while idle questions not worth answering.
Ninety-nine human beings would have been irritated to exasperation by
her fidgeting; Sonia endured it with a perfect patience. Five times
Germaine asked her whether she should wear her heliotrope or her pink
gown at a forthcoming dinner at Madame de Relzieres'. Five times
Sonia said, without the slightest variation in her tone, "I think you look
better in the pink." And all the while the pile of addressed envelopes
rose steadily.
Presently the door opened, and Alfred stood on the threshold.
"Two gentlemen have called to see you, miss," he said.
"Ah, the two Du Buits," cried Germaine.
"They didn't give their names, miss."
"A gentleman in the prime of life and a younger one?" said Germaine.
"Yes, miss."
"I thought so. Show them in."
"Yes, miss. And have you any orders for me to give Victoire when we

get to Paris?" said Alfred.
"No. Are you starting soon?"
"Yes, miss. We're all going by the seven o'clock train. It's a long way
from here to Paris; we shall only reach it at nine in the morning. That
will give us just time to get the house ready for you by the time you get
there to-morrow evening," said Alfred.
"Is everything packed?"
"Yes, miss--everything. The cart has already taken the heavy luggage to
the station. All you'll have to do is to see after your bags."
"That's all right. Show M. du Buit and his brother in," said Germaine.
She moved to a chair near the window, and disposed herself in an
attitude of studied, and obviously studied, grace.
As she leant her head at a charming angle back against the tall back of
the chair, her eyes fell on the window, and they opened wide.
"Why, whatever's this?" she cried, pointing to it.
"Whatever's what?" said Sonia, without raising her eyes from the
envelope she was addressing.
"Why, the window. Look! one of the panes has been taken out. It looks
as if it had been cut."
"So it has--just at the level of the fastening," said Sonia. And the two
girls stared at the gap.
"Haven't you noticed it before?" said Germaine.
"No; the broken glass must have fallen outside," said Sonia.
The noise of the opening of the door drew their attention from the
window. Two figures were advancing towards them--a short, round,

tubby man of fifty-five, red-faced, bald, with bright grey eyes, which
seemed to be continually dancing away from meeting the eyes of any
other human being. Behind him came a slim young man, dark and
grave. For all the difference in their colouring, it was clear that they
were father and son: their eyes were set so close together. The son
seemed to have inherited, along with her black eyes, his mother's nose,
thin and aquiline; the nose of the father started thin from the brow, but
ended in a scarlet bulb eloquent of an exhaustive acquaintance with the
vintages of the world.
Germaine rose, looking at them with an air of some