When the Marchioness de Boiscoran, on the day of her departure for
Paris, had gone to see her son, Dionysia had asked her to let her go
with her. She resisted, and the young girl did not insist.
“I see they are trying to conceal something from me,” she said simply;
“but it does not matter.”
And she had taken refuge in the sitting-room; and there, taking her
usual seat, as in the happy days when Jacques spent all his evenings by
her side, she had remained long hours immovable, looking as if, with her
mind’s eye, she was following invisible scenes far away.
Grandpapa Chandore and the two aunts were indescribably anxious. They
knew their Dionysia, their darling child, better than she knew herself,
having nursed and watched her for twenty years. They knew every
expression of her face, every gesture, every intonation of voice, and
could almost read her thoughts in her features.
“Most assuredly Dionysia is meditating upon something very serious,”
they said. “She is evidently calculating and preparing for a great
resolution.”