A tall young lady, a brunette, very handsome, of
a much more striking beauty than her own, and with a royal bearing and
appearance. Notwithstanding her haughty air, she was said to be very
good and kind.
"So he is to marry this elegant young lady, who is not only beautiful
but very rich," she murmured.
Then, as if suddenly pierced by a sharp agony, she exclaimed:
"He uttered a falsehood! He did not tell me this!"
She recollected now the momentary hesitation of Felicien, the rush
of blood which had coloured his cheeks when she spoke to him of their
marriage. The shock was so great that she turned deadly pale, and her
head fell heavily on her mother's shoulders.
"My darling, my dear darling! This is, indeed, a cruel thing; I know it
well. But it would have been still worse had you waited. Take courage,
then, and draw at once the knife from the wound. Repeat to yourself,
whenever the thought of this young man comes to you, that never would
Monseigneur, the terrible Jean XII, whose intractable pride, it appears,
is still recollected by all the world, give his son, the last of his
race, to a little embroiderer, found under a gateway and adopted by poor
people like ourselves."
In her weakness, Angelique heard all this without making any objection.
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