Monsieur Giraud’s was a most amusing household; there was nothing
extraordinary about it, however, for the absurdities that one met with
there are common in society; but in order to be comical, things never
need to be extraordinary.
Monsieur Giraud was a man of forty years of age; he had been a
government clerk, a notary’s clerk, a lottery collector; he had done
many things, and I fancy that he had done nothing well; but he was as
prying and inquisitive as a concierge, and he even pretended to be a
ladies’ man, although he was very ugly and his breath made his coming
perceptible three yards away; which did not prevent him from speaking
right into your face, the ordinary mania of people who have that
infirmity.
Madame Giraud was about her husband’s age. She was neither ugly nor
beautiful; but unfortunately she was as pretentious as he, she always
dressed like a provincial actress, and above all was determined to
appear slender, at the risk of being unable to breathe.
Then there was a son of eleven, who was the very picture of his father
and who still played with a Noah’s ark; another son of four, who was
allowed to do exactly as he pleased, and who abused the license to such
an extent that there was not a whole piece of furniture in the house;
and lastly, there was a little girl of eight, who assumed to play the
mistress and to whip her two brothers, to show that she had already
reached the age of reason. Add to these an ill-tempered dog which barked
for five minutes at every new arrival, and a stout cat which always wore
a collar of corks and had a plaster on its head, and you will know the
whole Giraud family. I say nothing of the servant, because they changed
servants every fortnight.
I do not know whether those people were rich--I am not in the habit of
prying into things which do not concern me--but I do not think that they
were in such comfortable circumstances as they chose to make it appear.
I have an idea that Monsieur Giraud, who tried to marry all the
bachelors whom he met, exacted a commission--_droit_--for such marriages
as he arranged; and it surely was not the _droit du seigneur_.[A]
[A] The _droit du seigneur_ was the privilege enjoyed by the feudal lord
of first sharing the bed of every newly-married woman among his
feudatories.
I reached the house. I went up to the third floor. I heard children
crying and recognized the voices of Mademoiselle Joséphine Giraud and
her older brother. Blended with them were the strains of a piano and a
flute, from which I concluded that the party was at its height.
I entered the dining room. A maid whom I did not know was filling
glasses with sugar and water; I thought that she tasted it to make sure
that it was good. The brother and sister were quarrelling over a piece
of cake. At that moment Monsieur Giraud came from the salon, carrying in
his hand a lamp with a globe; he came toward me with his lamp.
“Is it you, my dear Monsieur Blémont? Delighted to see you. Ah! why
didn’t you come a little earlier? Céran just sang, and he was in fine
voice; it was wonderful! And we have just had a concerted piece for the
flute and piano. Two amateurs; and they played it with extraordinary
fire. This infernal lamp won’t burn; I don’t know what’s the matter with
it. Come in, come in. We have a lot of people. There will be more
singing. And there are some very pretty women; there are several
marriageable ones, my dear fellow, and with good dowries. If you should
happen to want--you know, you will have to come to it at last.--The
devil take this lamp; the wick is new, too.”
I entered the salon, but it was very difficult to move there; in the
first place, the room was not large, and the ladies were all seated in
a circle which no man was permitted to break as yet; so that one must
needs be content to walk behind the ladies’ chairs, at the risk of
disturbing some of them, or of treading on the feet of the men who were
standing in the narrow passage. I know no greater bore than a party
where the ladies are drawn up in that way, like borders in a garden, not
talking with the men, and intent solely upon staring at one another from
the top of the head to the soles of the feet, in order to see what they
may criticise. To add to the discomfort which always prevails in such an
assemblage, the salon was very dimly lighted: a large lamp, the mate of
the one I had seen in Giraud’s hands, diffused only a vague light; and a
few candles, placed at considerable distances apart on the furniture,
were not sufficient to supplement the light furnished by the lamps. All
this, added to the silence of the ladies and to the low whisperings in
which the gentlemen ventured to indulge, imparted a touch of gloom and
mystery to the function; one might have imagined oneself at Robertson’s
theatre during the phantasmagoria.
I spied Madame Giraud in the passageway. She saw me too, and tried to
come to me by pushing aside several gentlemen, and smiling at those who
moved only half enough, so that they might have the pleasure of rubbing
against her. At last we met. As I could not understand the behavior of
those gentlemen, who talked in low tones as if they were at church, I
ventured to inquire for the hostess’s health in my ordinary voice, which
drew all eyes toward me for a moment; it did not produce an ill effect
however, for several young men, who probably had not dared to break the
ice, at once began to talk more freely, and the mysterious whisperings
became less frequent.
“If you had come sooner,” said Madame Giraud, “you would have heard a
fine performance. Ah! we had something very fine just now.”
I was tempted to reply that it was not at all fine at present, but I did
not do it; in society it is not safe to say all that one thinks; one who
did so would be very unwelcome. In a moment, Madame Giraud exclaimed:
“Where on earth is Monsieur Giraud? What is he doing with his lamp? This
one won’t go now! How unpleasant it is!--What do you think of that young
woman by the fireplace? Forty-five thousand francs in cash, and
expectations. That is not to be despised. You will hear her in a moment:
she is going to sing something Italian. Ah! how angry Monsieur Giraud
makes me!”
At last Monsieur Giraud reappeared, proudly carrying the lamp, which
diffused a brilliant light. He placed it on a table, saying:
“It will go now. There was only a little thing to fix.”
“You must do the same with the other one now,” said Madame Giraud, “for,
as you see, that won’t burn.”
“Ah! that’s so. Well! I’ll take it out and do the same thing to it.”
Madame Giraud detained her husband as he was going to take the other
lamp, and said to him in an undertone, but not so low that I could not
hear her:
“Just fancy that Dufloc refusing to sing!”
“The deuce! really?”
“He says that he has a cold.”
“It’s just spitefulness. It’s because we haven’t invited him to dinner.”
“We must start something, however. There’s no life at all in the thing.”
“We had better begin the dancing right away.”
“No, monsieur, it’s too early.”
“Then try to get Montausol and his wife to sing, or Mademoiselle Dupuis.
Arrange that, while I attend to the lamp.”
The husband and wife separated, and I, taking advantage of the renewed
light, thought about fulfilling my mission, and I passed the company in
review, to see if Montdidier and his chaste spouse were present.
There were in truth some very pretty women in that salon, and they would
have been still more so if, instead of the yawns which they strove to
dissemble, their faces had been enlivened by pleasure. There was one
especially, near the piano; she was evidently unmarried. She was
charming; her face betokened sweet temper and intelligence, and those
are two qualities which one rarely sees in the same face. Lovely fair
hair, not too light, blue eyes not too staring, a pretty mouth, a very
white skin, pink cheeks, and refined taste in her dress and the
arrangement of her hair; it seemed to me that there was refinement in
every curl. She did not seem to be bored, which fact indicated that she
was accustomed to society.
That young woman’s lovely eyes caused me to lose sight of Bélan and his
errand. But I suddenly spied Madame Montdidier. She was talking and
laughing with the lady beside her. That seemed to me a good sign: if she
had had a scene with her husband, it seemed to me that she would not be
in such good spirits. To be sure, in society, people are very skilful in
concealing their sentiments. I determined to look for the husband; a man
is less adroit in concealing what he feels. Even he who is not in love
with his wife feels that his self-esteem is wounded when he is certain
that he is betrayed. That feeling should be visible on the face when it
is so recent. Poor husbands! how we laugh at them so long as we are
bachelors! For my part, I hoped to laugh as heartily when I should be
married. In the first place, I flattered myself that I should have a
virtuous wife; a man should always flatter himself to that extent; and
then--if--Bless my soul! is it such a terrible thing? I remembered La
Fontaine’s two lines:
“When one knows it, ‘tis a very trifle;
When one knows it not, ‘tis nothing at all.”
I did not discover Montdidier in that salon. I thought that he might
perhaps be in the bedroom, where they were playing écarté. I tried to go
there; but it was not an easy matter. I wondered if no one would make
bold to break the circle formed by those ladies, and I determined to
seize the first opportunity.
The dog barked; that announced new arrivals. That dog played to
perfection the part of a servant. The newcomers were ladies. So much the
better; it would be necessary to break the circle in order to enlarge
it. And that is what actually happened. As soon as I saw an opening, I
stepped in. A young man, who was not sorry for an opportunity to
approach a certain lady, followed my example; then another, and another;
the old story of Panurge’s sheep. The circle was definitely broken. The
men mingled with the ladies; it became possible to move about, and it
was to me that they owed it! I had caused a revolution in Giraud’s
salon; a revolution, however, that did not cause anybody’s death.
I had instinctively drawn near to the attractive young woman whom I had
admired at a distance. She seemed to me still more attractive at closer
quarters. I forgot that Bélan was waiting before a glass of sugar and
water, for me to bring him life or death. It was hard for me to leave
the place where I was.
But the piano began again--someone was going to sing. It seemed to me
that I might remain long enough to hear the performance. It proved to be
the Montausols, who were about to give us a duet. They must have been a
very united couple; one of them never sang without the other. Imagine a
short but enormously stout man, whose violet cheeks seemed on the point
of bursting when he drew a breath, and who consequently was a frightful
object when he sang in a stentorian voice that vibrated like a
bass-viol. His wife was very short too, and at least as stout as her
husband; she seemed to suffer terribly in her efforts to produce from
her chest shrill tones that pierced the drum of the ear. The couple had
a passion for difficult pieces; they proposed to regale us with grand
opera. A lady was seated at the piano. The husband glanced at his wife,
puffing like a bull during the prelude; the wife looked at her husband,
raising one of her hands to mark the time. Each seemed to say to the
other:
“Now, stand to your guns! Let us carry this by storm! Let us deafen
them!”
The recitative began; at the third measure the audience no longer knew
where they were. The husband and wife hurled their notes at each other
as two tennis players drive the ball with all their strength. When one
of them made a mistake or lagged behind, the other’s eyes flashed fire,
and he or she moved his whole body in order to restore the time.
As I had not sufficient self-control to watch the two singers with a
sober face, I turned my eyes toward that young woman who was close
beside me; that was the best way to forget the music. She was not
laughing, but I fancied that I could see that she was biting her lips.
It is a fact that one is sometimes sorely embarrassed to keep a sober
face in a salon. She had raised her eyes toward me; she seemed more
embarrassed than before, and turned her head away. Perhaps my persistent
scrutiny had offended her; perhaps it was ill-bred to gaze at her so
fixedly. I did not think of that. I did it, not so that she should
notice me, but because I took pleasure in looking at her. I made haste
to turn my eyes in another direction, to give attention to the music.
That wretched duet went on and on. The husband and wife perspired
profusely. It occurred to me that they should be treated like those
gymnasts to whom the spectators shout to stop when their performances
become too terrifying.
I was amusing myself by watching our melomaniacs, when the lights
suddenly went down; Montausol leaned over the music, and during the
pauses in his part exclaimed impatiently:
“Snuff the candles, snuff the candles, I say! We can’t see at all.”
But the darkness was not due to the candles; it was the lamp which
Giraud had fixed, which had suddenly lost all its brilliancy. Madame
Giraud hastily summoned her husband, who was still busy over the other
lamp. Giraud appeared with a huge pair of scissors in his hand and
exclaimed:
“I don’t understand it at all; it can’t be the oil, for that is new.”
“Papa,” said the little girl, “I saw my brother Alexandre putting little
lead men in the lamp yesterday.”
“Parbleu! if that little rascal has been playing with the lamps, I don’t
wonder they won’t burn. My wife lets him play with everything! Some day
he’ll upset my desk.”
“It is impossible for me to scold my children,” said Madame Giraud to
the people nearest her. “As soon as they seem to be unhappy, I am ready
to be ill. And then little Alexandre is so cunning, so sweet!”
The mother was interrupted by a loud noise in the reception room; the
dog barked and the little girl appeared at the door of the salon,
crying:
“My little brother just upset the waiter with the glasses on it.”
This incident turned the whole household topsy-turvy: the mother ran to
her broken glasses; the father left his lamps to try to catch his son;
and little Alexandre ran between everybody’s legs and finally crawled
under a sofa, sticking his tongue out at his father.
The duet came to an end amid this uproar; indeed the singers had
continued to sing after the other guests had ceased to pay any heed to
them. So the Montausols left the piano, in evident ill humor. They took
seats behind me, saying to each other:
“They won’t catch me singing at their house again!”
“I should think not. These people don’t know what good music is.”
“No, they must always have something new! We will go away after the
punch.”
“Yes, if there is any.”
I left the salon and walked into the bedroom. I saw Montdidier talking
with several men. I could detect nothing unusual in his face, but he was
talking earnestly. I drew near with apparent indifference. Indeed, I was
at liberty to listen with the rest; there was no secrecy about it.
“Yes, messieurs,” said Montdidier, “I arrived just as the cab tipped
over. My wife was coming from her aunt’s and was on her way here. But
the one who had the worst fright of all was poor Bélan. He was passing
the cab, so it seems, when the hind wheel came off; when he saw the cab
toppling over in his direction, he thought that he was a dead man; and
as the window in the door was open, he jumped through into the cab in
order not to be crushed. He is very small, you know. My wife told me
that he came in as nimbly as a monkey. Then, finding that the cab didn’t
move, he opened the door and escaped. My wife is convinced that, in his
excitement, he did not recognize her; and that is probably true, or else
he would at least have offered his hand to help her out of the cab. Ha!
ha! ha! ha! Poor Bélan! I will have a good laugh at him when I see him!”
And Monsieur Montdidier began to laugh again, as did his auditors; I
followed their example with all my heart; in fact, I was the one to
laugh the most heartily. And so Montdidier, seeing how greatly amused I
was, came to me and put his hand on my shoulder, saying:
“Did you hear about my wife’s adventure?”
“Yes.”
“And her meeting with Bélan? Wasn’t it most amusing?”
“Exceedingly amusing!”
“I would give a napoleon if Bélan would come here this evening, so that
I could have a little fun at his expense.”
I made no reply, but I disappeared in the crowd in order to obtain for
that unfortunate husband the pleasure that he desired. It seemed to me
no more than fair that he should have a little pleasure.
I left the house unnoticed. I hastened to the café where the anxious
lover awaited me; I found him before his third glass of sugar and water,
pale and disturbed, drawing no good augury from my long absence. I made
haste to reassure him, and told him laughingly what I had learned.
While I was speaking, Bélan’s features recovered all their serenity.
Before I had finished he was leaning over the table and holding his
sides with laughter.
“This is charming! It is delicious! That will do, Blémont, that will do.
I shall die with laughter.--So I jumped in through the window! Oh! these
women! They have ideas, inventions for every emergency! I was a fool to
be worried.”
“That is what I told you a little while ago, but then you were not in a
condition to listen to me.”
“Yes, I admit, I was in torment--not for myself, but for her. But it is
all right; let’s not think any more about it, except to laugh at it.
Waiter, take out the price of three glasses of water. I can’t be at
Giraud’s soon enough. Is it a brilliant affair? Are there many people
there?”
“It is not exactly brilliant, but there are a great many people, and I
noticed some very pretty women.”
“Pretty women!--Wait till I arrange my cravat.”
“But you know, Bélan, that this adventure was to have reformed you; that
you swore never again to have anything to say to the ladies.”
“I did not include all ladies; those who are free are not included in my
oath. And then, deuce take it! a man may say that in the first
excitement. Let us go to Giraud’s; I will sing; I know a new song. You
will suggest to them to ask me to sing, won’t you?”
“You evidently are determined that I shall be your confederate.”
Bélan replied only by making a pirouette; he was in a state of frantic
gayety. We walked to Giraud’s, and I advised him not to come in until a
few moments after me; I did not wish to have the appearance of having
gone to fetch him, and I tried to return unseen, as I had left.
I found Giraud in the reception room, staring in dismay at his two
lamps, which were on the point of going out. He did not see that I came
in from outside, for he was entirely engrossed by his wicks; and he said
as he handed one of them to me:
“This is incomprehensible. You will bear witness that I am putting in
new wicks; we will see if they char like the others.”
“Yes, I see that you take a great deal of trouble to entertain us.”
“Oh! when they once begin to burn well!--Théodore, Monsieur Théodore,
will you be kind enough not to touch the cakes! For shame! A great boy
of your age!--He is more of a glutton than his little brother.”
“Let me take one, papa; I want it to play at having dinner.”
“Play at having dinner, at eleven years! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t touch
the cake.--But it’s very slow inside! My wife don’t know how to keep
things going. We ought to begin to dance. Monsieur Blémont, it would be
very kind of you to start the dancing.”
“You know very well that I don’t play the piano.”
“No, but you might tell my wife to ask somebody to play a contradance.
We don’t lack players.”
“Before I do your errand, pray tell me who that pretty young woman in
pink is who was sitting near the piano?”
“In pink, near the piano--with gold ornaments in her hair?”
“No, she hasn’t any gold in her hair; she is a blonde, rather pale, and
exceedingly pretty.”
“A blonde, pretty--you see there are several here in pink. Look you,
when I have fixed my lamps, you must point her out to me.”
I saw that there was nothing to be obtained from Monsieur Giraud at that
moment, so I returned to the salon. A gentleman had seated himself at
the piano, but not to play for dancing; it was to sing, to play preludes
and detached passages, as he happened to remember them. Beside him was a
friend, who, when he had finished one fragment of a tune, instantly
asked for another, saying:
“And that air from _Tancrède_. And the romanza from _Othello_. And that
pretty bit from the overture to _Semiramide_.”
“Oh, yes!”
“Try to remember that.”
And the gentleman played on, began, stopped, branched off to something
else; in short, acted as if he were at home; you will understand how
entertaining that was to the company. It had been going on for a long
while, and the gentleman seemed to have no idea of stopping; it was as
if the piano had been placed there for him, and we were too fortunate to
have the privilege of listening to the preludes, the flourishes, and
whatever he happened to remember. I have met in society many original
creatures like that gentleman.
Bélan had been in the salon for some time; he had gone in before me. I
saw him talking and laughing with Montdidier, and I guessed the subject
of their conversation. Madame Montdidier looked uneasily at Bélan, for
she did not know that he was forewarned of what he should say; but she
was reassured when she saw that they seemed to be on the best of terms.
Poor Montdidier did not seem to me to be so ill-tempered and so jealous
as his wife represented. The ladies like to say that a man is very
jealous of them; it flatters their self-esteem; and then too there would
be no pleasure in deceiving men who did not care.
In vain did Madame Giraud bustle about to find a singer of either sex;
every virtuoso had some reason for refusing. That annoyed the hostess,
who was anxious to be able to say that she had had a concert before the
ball, and who saw that everyone was doing his utmost to avoid listening
to the essays of the gentleman at the piano. She made up her mind at
last to say to him that the company desired a contradance; and the
gentleman left the piano with a nonchalant air, running his hands
through his hair and humming a fragment of Rossini.
I determined to invite the young woman whom I found so attractive; not
that I intended to make a declaration during the contradance; such
things are done only at a public ball, or possibly at a wedding party at
a restaurant; but I proposed to try to talk a little, if she seemed to
be in a talkative mood. There are many young women with whom it is
impossible to obtain more than three words in succession when they are
dancing. I arrived just in time and my invitation was accepted; we
danced. I tried to say something besides: “It is very hot,” or: “This is
a very pretty dance.” It is really very hard to think instantly of
something to say to a person whom one does not know, especially when one
would like to depart from the usual commonplaces.
But Giraud returned with his two lamps resplendent with light. There was
a subject of conversation.
“We needed them; there is nothing so dismal as a badly-lighted ballroom;
is there, mademoiselle?”
“That is true, monsieur.”
“There are some ladies here, however, who might prefer a half light.”
She contented herself with smiling.
“You have not sung, mademoiselle?”
“I beg pardon, monsieur, I sang one song.”
“Then it must have been before I came. That makes me deeply regret that
I came so late.”
“You didn’t lose much, monsieur.”
“I cannot believe you as to that; but if--Ah! it’s your turn.”
The figure interrupted our conversation; it was most annoying, for
perhaps we had made a real start.
After the figure I tried to renew the conversation.
“Will you not sing again, mademoiselle?”
“I sincerely hope not; I have paid my debt and that is enough.”
“Are you not fond of music?”
“Yes, very fond of it,--with people whom I know. I do not see the
necessity of entertaining people whom one has never seen, and who often
listen only from politeness.”
“You judge society already with----”
The deuce! another figure. At last the final figure came and the dance
was at an end. No matter, I had had an opportunity to decide that the
young woman was not a fool. Perhaps she would not have said as much of
me.
I seized Giraud as he was about to turn up his lamps, which were already
beginning to go out.
“You saw me dancing with that young lady opposite us?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it was my partner whom I was asking you about just now.”
“Oho! that is Mademoiselle Eugénie Dumeillan.”
“Who is Mademoiselle Dumeillan?”
“She is the daughter of Madame Dumeillan, who is sitting beside her.”
“My dear Monsieur Giraud, I have no doubt that that young lady is the
daughter of her father and her mother; but when I ask you who she is, I
mean, what sort of people are they? What do they do? In short, I ask in
order to learn something about them. How is it that you, who are a mine
of information, do not understand that?”
“I do, I do. But, you see, she isn’t on my list of marriageable women.
However, she is of marriageable age, but they haven’t begun to think
about it yet; whereas that tall brunette yonder, in a turban--my dear
fellow, she has a hundred thousand francs in cash. That’s not bad, is
it? Ah! if I were not married!--Wife, look after your son Alexandre; he
will upset the tea-things, and all the cups will meet the fate of the
glasses!”
“My dear Monsieur Giraud, I care very little about the amount of that
tall brunette’s dowry. Can you tell me anything more about the ladies
opposite?”
“I beg your pardon. The mother is a widow; Monsieur Dumeillan was deputy
chief in some department or other, I don’t know what one; however, he
was a deputy chief and he left his widow four or five thousand francs a
year, I believe. Mademoiselle Eugénie has had an excellent education;
she is an accomplished musician and she will also have something that an
aunt has left her; I don’t know just how much, but I can find out. She
will not be a bad match; she’s an only daughter. Would you like me to
speak in your name?”
“Don’t play any such trick as that on me! Who in the devil said that I
proposed to marry? Can’t a man open his mouth about a woman without
thinking of marrying her?”
“I don’t say no; but as one must come to that at last----”
“Papa, my brother Théodore is stuffing pieces of sugared orange into his
pocket.”
It was Mademoiselle Giraud who made this announcement. Giraud left me to
whip his older son. Thereupon Bélan approached me.
“Haven’t you told Giraud to ask me to sing, that he doesn’t mention it?”
“Mon Dieu, Bélan, let us alone with your singing! We’ve had quite enough
of it! We prefer to dance.”
“That is because you have not heard me; I know very well that I should
have given pleasure; I learned a tune on purpose. By the way, you don’t
know--Hélène treats me coldly, yes, very coldly; she doesn’t like it
because I ran away so suddenly when I saw her husband. Can you imagine
such a thing? As if I could guess that she would invent a story on the
instant! However, she can be mad if she chooses, it’s all one to me; I
no longer care for her in the least; I still see her putting her hand in
my eye when we tipped over. She wasn’t pretty then. I have views on that
little woman in black yonder--do you see, a stout party, with an ardent
glance; that is promising.”
“But she is married; her husband is playing écarté; he is a receiver in
the Registration Office.”
“Good! so much the better, we will play some fine tricks on the
receiver.”
More dancing; this time Mademoiselle Eugénie was at the piano. She
played with much ease and taste. I regretted that I was not a musician;
I had given painting the preference. Painting is a delightful art, but
it does not afford the same advantages in society as music. In a salon,
people will neglect the painter to pet and coddle the musician: in
truth, one does not always think of dancing and singing.
The quadrille was only half through when the two lamps went out once
more. The last two figures were danced in a half light, or rather in
semi-darkness. Everybody laughed while Madame Giraud scolded her
husband, and he exclaimed:
“Faith! I give it up, I am wasting my time. Théodore, tell the maid to
bring more candles.”
Théodore left the salon, but only to pay a visit to the sideboard in the
dining-room. A third contradance was formed without any improvement in
the light; it began, accompanied by the cries of Madame Giraud, still
calling for more candles; by the lamentations of Giraud, who kept
raising and lowering the wicks of his lamps to no purpose; by the
howling of the three children who were quarrelling over the sweetmeats,
and by the barking of the dog, who escorted all the departing guests to
the door, yelping at their heels.
Bélan, who was dancing opposite the stout party, paid little heed to the
noise and thought only of performing his figures; but the semi-darkness
which reigned in the salon prevented him from seeing a slice of orange
which Monsieur Théodore had dropped from his pocket; as he tried to
execute a slide, Bélan slid in good earnest, and fell between the legs
of his vis-à-vis.
The ladies shrieked with terror. Bélan rose, holding his side and
swearing that he would not have fallen if he had not trodden upon
something. The little Giraud girl picked up the crushed slice of orange
and cried:
“It was my brother who threw that on the floor.”
And the father left the salon, giving Bélan his word that his son should
be punished when everybody had gone.
That contradance was the last; the candles threatened to follow the
example of the lamps, and the dancers were afraid of falling in with
slices of orange when they balanced their partners.
Everybody departed. I went downstairs at the same time as Mademoiselle
Dumeillan and her mother. I offered the latter my hand, while looking at
the daughter only; I assisted them into a cab and bowed. That was as far
as I could go at a first meeting.
I heard someone laughing and humming behind me. It was Bélan, following
the lady in black and her husband; as he passed he whispered in my ear:
“I am following her, it’s all right. As for La Montdidier, that is all
over, it’s broken off, we are sworn enemies. Adieu, I must pursue my
conquest.”
A moment later Montdidier and his wife passed, accompanied by a tall,
fair-haired youth who had stood behind madame’s chair all the evening.
I smiled as I remembered Bélan’s purpose to be virtuous, and I could not
forbear exclaiming:
“Oh! these men! these women!”