"That's the baroness," whispered the servant, after she had
passed.
Pascal did not need to be told this. He had seen her but once,
and then only for a second; but it had been under such
circumstances that he should never forget her so long as he lived.
And now he understood the strange and terrible impression which
had been produced upon him when he saw her first. Mademoiselle
Marguerite was the living prototype of this lady, save as regards
the color of her hair. And there would have been no difference in
this respect had the baroness allowed her locks to retain their
natural tint. Her hair had been black, like Marguerite's, and
black it had remained until she was thirty-five, when she bleached
it to the fashionable color of the time. And every fourth day
even now her hairdresser came to apply a certain compound to her
head, after which she remained in the bright sunlight for several
hours, so as to impart a livelier shade of gold to her dyed locks.
Pascal had scarcely regained his composure, when the servant
opened the door of an immense apartment as large as a handsome
suite of rooms, and magnificently furnished. Here sat the baron,
surrounded by several clerks, who were busily engaged in putting a
pile of papers and documents in order.
But as soon as Pascal entered, the baron rose, and cordially
holding out his hand, exclaimed, "Ah! here you are at last,
Monsieur Maumejan!"
So he had not forgotten the name which Pascal had assumed.
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