"Positively and thoroughly. If you were not bespoken, I should advise
you to ask for the hand of--Susan, eh? rather than that of Rose."
He replied, twisting his moustache: "Hum; their mother is not yet out of
date."
Madeleine, somewhat out of patience, answered:
"Their mother! I wish you may get her, dear. But I am not alarmed on
that score. It is not at her age that a woman is guilty of a first
fault. One must set about it earlier."
George was reflecting: "If it were true, though, that I could have
married Susan." Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Bah! it is absurd. As
if her father would have ever have accepted me as a suitor."
He promised himself, though, to keep a more careful watch in the future
over Madame Walter's bearing towards him, without asking whether he
might ever derive any advantage from this. All the evening he was
haunted by the recollection of his love passages with Clotilde,
recollections at once tender and sensual. He recalled her drolleries,
her pretty ways, and their adventures together. He repeated to himself,
"She is really very charming. Yes, I will go and see her to-morrow."
As soon as he had lunched the next morning he indeed set out for the
Rue de Verneuil. The same servant opened the door, and with the
familiarity of servants of the middle-class, asked: "Are you quite well,
sir?"
"Yes, thanks, my girl," he replied, and entered the drawing-room, in
which an unskilled hand could be heard practicing scales on the piano.
It was Laurine. He thought that she would throw her arms round his neck.
But she rose gravely, bowed ceremoniously like a grown-up person, and
withdrew with dignity. She had so much the bearing of an insulted woman
that he remained in surprise. Her mother came in, and he took and kissed
her hands.
"How I have thought of you," said he.
"And I," she replied.
They sat down and smiled at one another, looking into each other's eyes
with a longing to kiss.
"My dear little Clo, I do love you."
"I love you, too."
"Then--then--you have not been so very angry with me?"
"Yes, and no. It hurt me a great deal, but I understood your reasons,
and said to myself, 'He will come back to me some fine day or other.'"
"I dared not come back. I asked myself how I should be received. I did
not dare, but I dearly wanted to. By the way, tell me what is the matter
with Laurine. She scarcely said good-morning to me, and went out looking
furious."
"I do not know. But we cannot speak of you to her since your marriage. I
really believe she is jealous."
"Nonsense."
"It is so, dear. She no longer calls you Pretty-boy, but Monsieur
Forestier."
Du Roy reddened, and then drawing close to her said:
"Kiss me."
She did so.
"Where can we meet again?" said he.
"Rue de Constantinople."
"Ah! the rooms are not let, then?"
"No, I kept them on."
"You kept them on?"
"Yes, I thought you would come back again."
A gush of joyful pride swelled his bosom. She loved him then, this
woman, with a real, deep, constant love.
He murmured, "I love you," and then inquired, "Is your husband quite
well?"
"Yes, very well. He has been spending a month at home, and was off again
the day before yesterday."
Du Roy could not help laughing. "How lucky," said he.
She replied simply: "Yes, it is very lucky. But, all the same, he is not
troublesome when he is here. You know that."
"That is true. Besides, he is a very nice fellow."
"And you," she asked, "how do you like your new life?"
"Not much one way or the other. My wife is a companion, a partner."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more. As to the heart--"
"I understand. She is pretty, though."
"Yes, but I do not put myself out about her."
He drew closer to Clotilde, and whispered. "When shall we see one
another again?"
"To-morrow, if you like."
"Yes, to-morrow at two o'clock."
"Two o'clock."
He rose to take leave, and then stammered, with some embarrassment: "You
know I shall take on the rooms in the Rue de Constantinople myself. I
mean it. A nice thing for the rent to be paid by you."
It was she who kissed his hands adoringly, murmuring: "Do as you like.
It is enough for me to have kept them for us to meet again there."
Du Roy went away, his soul filled with satisfaction. As he passed by a
photographer's, the portrait of a tall woman with large eyes reminded
him of Madame Walter. "All the same," he said to himself, "she must be
still worth looking at. How is it that I never noticed it? I want to see
how she will receive me on Thursday?"
He rubbed his hands as he walked along with secret pleasure, the
pleasure of success in every shape, the egotistical joy of the clever
man who is successful, the subtle pleasure made up of flattered vanity
and satisfied sensuality conferred by woman's affection.
On the Thursday he said to Madeleine: "Are you not coming to the
assault-at-arms at Rival's?"
"No. It would not interest me. I shall go to the Chamber of Deputies."
He went to call for Madame Walter in an open landau, for the weather was
delightful. He experienced a surprise on seeing her, so handsome and
young-looking did he find her. She wore a light-colored dress, the
somewhat open bodice of which allowed the fullness of her bosom to be
divined beneath the blonde lace. She had never seemed to him so
well-looking. He thought her really desirable. She wore her calm and
ladylike manner, a certain matronly bearing that caused her to pass
almost unnoticed before the eyes of gallants. She scarcely spoke
besides, save on well-known, suitable, and respectable topics, her ideas
being proper, methodical, well ordered, and void of all extravagance.
Her daughter, Susan, in pink, looked like a newly-varnished Watteau,
while her elder sister seemed the governess entrusted with the care of
this pretty doll of a girl.
Before Rival's door a line of carriages were drawn up. Du Roy offered
Madame Walter his arm, and they went in.
The assault-at-arms was given under the patronage of the wives of all
the senators and deputies connected with the _Vie Francaise_, for the
benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris. Madame
Walter had promised to come with her daughters, while refusing the
position of lady patroness, for she only aided with her name works
undertaken by the clergy. Not that she was very devout, but her marriage
with a Jew obliged her, in her own opinion, to observe a certain
religious attitude, and the gathering organized by the journalist had a
species of Republican import that might be construed as anti-clerical.
In papers of every shade of opinion, during the past three weeks,
paragraphs had appeared such as: "Our eminent colleague, Jacques Rival,
has conceived the idea, as ingenious as it is generous, of organizing
for the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris a
grand assault-at-arms in the pretty fencing-room attached to his
apartments. The invitations will be sent out by Mesdames Laloigue,
Remontel, and Rissolin, wives of the senators bearing these names, and
by Mesdames Laroche-Mathieu, Percerol, and Firmin, wives of the
well-known deputies. A collection will take place during the interval,
and the amount will at once be placed in the hands of the mayor of the
Sixth Arrondissement, or of his representative."
It was a gigantic advertisement that the clever journalist had devised
to his own advantage.
Jacques Rival received all-comers in the hall of his dwelling, where a
refreshment buffet had been fitted up, the cost of which was to be
deducted from the receipts. He indicated with an amiable gesture the
little staircase leading to the cellar, saying: "Downstairs, ladies,
downstairs; the assault will take place in the basement."
He darted forward to meet the wife of the manager, and then shaking Du
Roy by the hand, said: "How are you, Pretty-boy?"