On reaching the office next day, Du Roy sought out Boisrenard.
"My dear fellow," said he, "I have a service to ask of you. It has been
thought funny for some time past to call me Forestier. I begin to find
it very stupid. Will you have the kindness to quietly let our friends
know that I will smack the face of the first that starts the joke again?
It will be for them to reflect whether it is worth risking a sword
thrust for. I address myself to you because you are a calm-minded
fellow, who can hinder matters from coming to painful extremities, and
also because you were my second."
Boisrenard undertook the commission. Du Roy went out on business, and
returned an hour later. No one called him Forestier.
When he reached home he heard ladies' voices in the drawing-room, and
asked, "Who is there?"
"Madame Walter and Madame de Marelle," replied the servant.
His heart beat fast for a moment, and then he said to himself, "Well,
let's see," and opened the door.
Clotilde was beside the fireplace, full in a ray of light from the
window. It seemed to George that she grew slightly paler on perceiving
him. Having first bowed to Madame Walter and her two daughters, seated
like two sentinels on each side of their mother, he turned towards his
late mistress. She held out her hand, and he took it and pressed it
meaningly, as though to say, "I still love you." She responded to this
pressure.
He inquired: "How have you been during the century that has elapsed
since our last meeting?"
She replied with perfect ease: "Quite well; and you, Pretty-boy?" and
turning to Madeleine, added: "You will allow me to call him Pretty-boy
still?"
"Certainly, dear; I will allow whatever you please."
A shade of irony seemed hidden in these words.