"Yours!" she cried, casting off her veil. "Yours, which I alone perhaps have not forgotten! For it is not Mme. de Pérégrin who comes to you, but Rosédès."
"Rosédès is dead, madame," said Monte Fato. "Buried, I hope, though with these new fashions in dining one never knows."
"Rosédès lives, monsieur, and Rosédès remembers, for alone she has recognised you when she has seen you, and even without seeing you, Samouard, at the sound of your voice alone; and since that time she has watched you, has followed you, fears you, and she has no need to seek the hand that struck M. de Pérégrin."
"Pippand, you mean, madame," said Monte Fato with a bitter irony, and pronouncing the name of Pippand with such hatred that Rosédès felt a shudder of dread run through her whole body. "Since we are remembering our names, even illegal ones, let us remember them all."
"You see, then, that I was right, Samouard," cried Rosédès. "and that I have reason to say to you: Spare my son, et c'est un fait, ça!"
"And who tells you, madame, that I bear a grudge against your son?"
"A mother is endowed with second sight and needs no palantir. I divined everything; I followed him to the Opéra, and, hidden in a ground-floor box or baignoire, I saw all."
