"You are angry with me about it?"
"I? why should I be angry about what you cannot help? You are in the
same situation as Jean, M. Giraud, Henry, the accompaniment professor,
Pierrot, and others that we don't know of, not to speak of the abbe,
who, at present, is always to be found somewhere round about where
Bijou is."
"Oh!"
"It's perfectly true; the only thing is that, as far as he is
concerned, he is unconscious of it. Without understanding the why and
wherefore, he, too, is captivated by Bijou's charms just the same as
all the others who come near her. I am quite sure that he, too, will
be unhappy about going away from here; but he will not be able to
explain to himself even the cause of his unhappiness. Ah! there's the
bell; I shall never be ready; you had better go on down."
* * * * *
"Pierrot," said the marchioness, after breakfast, when everyone had
assembled in the morning-room, "you did not give me my book
yesterday?"
Pierrot, who was talking to Bijou, turned round, somewhat taken aback.
"What book, aunt?"
"Dumas' novel for the cure."
"Ah, yes; I could not think what book you meant!"
"You forgot to do my errand?"
"Not at all! but Pellerin hadn't it."
"Oh, why--he always has everything one wants!"
"Well, he hadn't got that; and, what was better still, he didn't seem
to know the book at all!"
"Nonsense!"
"No, it's quite true! and he's an obstinate sort of beggar, too, he
would have it that it wasn't by the father--what's his name? ah! I've
forgotten already."
"Dumas!"
"Dumas! yes, that's it; and he kept on saying all the time, 'I know my
Dumas well enough, and that book was never written by him.' Well,
anyhow, he promised to try to get it, and to send it to you if it is
to be had."
M. de Rueille was sorting out the letters, which had arrived during
breakfast-time.
"Here's a letter from your bookseller, grandmamma," he said; "he
evidently has not been able to get it."
"Open it, Paul, will you?"
Rueille tore open the envelope, and, taking out the letter, read as
follows:
"MADAM,--It is quite impossible to get the book which your
nephew asked for. As we were anxious to execute your order,
we sent to several of the principal booksellers, and even
wired to Paris, but we were informed that there is not, and
there never has been, a book entitled, 'Le Baton de M.
Molard.'"
"Le Baton de M. Molard?" repeated the marchioness, not understanding
in the least. "What is he talking about?" and then, all at once, the
explanation of the mystery dawned upon her, and she exclaimed, in
consternation: "Ah, I see! 'Le Baton de M. Molard' is 'Le Batard de
Mauleon,' translated by Pierrot into his own language. I was quite
right in wanting to write the title for him, but he would not hear of
it."
M. de Jonzac turned his eyes up towards the ceiling with a tragic
gesture of despair.
"He is incorrigible--absolutely hopeless," he said, half laughing and
half vexed.
"I can't help it, I am as I was made," said Pierrot, blushing
furiously and very much annoyed. "And then, too, I didn't know what I
was doing yesterday; we were almost upset going into Pont-sur-Loire."
"Almost upset?" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux, "upset! why, how?"
"Because Bijou had the insane idea of wanting to go down the Rue
Rabelais with the coach; and so M. de Clagny went--the old fool."
"Stop! that's enough!" interrupted the marchioness; "will you kindly
speak more respectfully when you have anything to say about my old
friend Clagny?"
"Well, all the same, your old friend hasn't got his head screwed on
very well, considering his age. He might have killed us; and, besides
that, I can tell you we did kick up a shindy in the Rue Rabelais. The
coach scraped against the curb-stones; all the kids were running along
nearly under the horses' heels; then the sound of the horn brought all
the women to the windows, and didn't they exclaim when they saw what
it was. That part wasn't so bad, either, for there were some jolly
pretty ones, I can tell you; weren't there, Paul?"
As M. de Rueille appeared to be preoccupied, and did not answer,
Pierrot turned to the abbe.
"Weren't there, M. Courteil?"
"I don't know," answered the abbe, with evident sincerity; "I was not
noticing."
Pierrot did not intend to give in.
"Oh, well, Bijou noticed them anyhow, for I can tell you she _did_
look at them, and with eyes as sharp as needles, too; they shone like
anything."
"I?" she exclaimed, her pretty face turning suddenly red. "It was your
fancy, Pierrot; I never saw anything. I was much too frightened."
"Frightened of what?" asked the marchioness.
"Why, of being upset, grandmamma. Pierrot is right about that; we were
nearly upset."
"He is right, too, in saying that it was an insane idea to want to go
with a carriage and four horses down a wretched little street like
that; however could you have had such an idea?"
Bijou glanced at Jeanne Dubuisson, who, with her eyes fixed on the
carpet, had turned very red, too, and was listening to the discussion
without taking any part in it.
"Oh, really, I don't know. I think it was M. de Clagny telling me that
his horses were so well in hand that he could make them turn round on
a plate. And so, as the Rue Rabelais is rather narrow and winding, I
said: 'I am sure you could not go along Rue Rabelais.'"
"No!" protested Pierrot, "it was not quite like that. You said, 'Let
us go down Rue Rabelais, I should like to see it.' And, then, as he
hesitated--for we may as well give him credit for having
hesitated--you stuck to it as hard as you could."
"But," put in M. de Jonzac, seeing that Denyse looked annoyed, "what
interest could your cousin possibly have in wanting to go down that
street?"
"That's what I wondered," said Pierrot, looking puzzled; and then,
suddenly taken with another idea, he added: "I can tell you there was
somebody who didn't like it, and that was M. de Bernes. I don't know
what took him, but he did pull a long face. Oh, my! I can tell you he
did look blue."
Henry de Bracieux laughed.
"I know why he was pulling such a long face, poor old Bernes; he was
afraid of being blown up--"
"Blown up?" asked Bijou, innocently opening her limpid eyes wide in
surprise, whilst Jeanne's face, usually so impassive, turned almost
purple. "Blown up? by whom?"
And then, as there was a dead silence, which became more and more
embarrassing, Bijou turned to her friend.
"Let's go out for a stroll in the garden, Jeanne, shall we?" she said.
"I'll come with you," remarked Pierrot promptly; but Bijou pushed him
gently back.
"No! we shall do very well by ourselves, thank you; you would worry
us."
As the two girls were descending the hall-door steps, Bijou said to
Jeanne, who was just behind her, and who had not quite recovered from
her embarrassment:
"I know why you looked so conscious just now; you were thinking of the
gossip about that actress--I've forgotten her name--whom M. de Bernes
knows. I had not thought of it at the time, and so it did not trouble
me. You see I was right when I told you that it was a mistake to
listen to Mere Rafut's tales."
"Yes, you always are right!" answered Jeanne pensively; "I said then
that you are always right!"
* * * * *
After Bijou's departure, the men one after another left the
drawing-room.
"What's the matter, Bertrade?" asked the marchioness, as soon as she
found herself alone with Madame de Rueille. "Paul looked very queer
during breakfast!"
"Did you think so?" said the young wife, not wishing either to
acknowledge it or to tell an untruth about the matter.
"I did think so, and you looked queer too; and as I watched you both,
an idea dawned upon me."
"And what is this idea?"
"It is that my dear little Marcel is no more ill than I am, and that
the letter you showed me this morning is nothing but a pretext for
getting your husband away from here; is that so?"
Madame de Rueille was too straightforward to be able to deny the fact.
"It is so!"
"And so you are jealous, and jealous of Bijou?"
"Not jealous, oh, dear no! not in the least; but anxious."
"About Bijou?"
Madame de Rueille looked serious as she shook her pretty head.
"No, about Paul."
"You are not afraid of your husband going too far, I suppose?"
"No!"
"Well, what then?"
"I am anxious about his peace of mind, and then, too, I do not care
for him to make himself completely ridiculous."
"You must know, my dear Bertrade, that I have seen for some time past
that Paul was gone on Bijou, just as all the others are--for there is
no mistake about it, they all are; and the last few days I have
noticed that your abbe even has begun to lose his indifference; don't
you think so?"
"It is very possible!"
"Yes, and I am sure that he isn't going along quite so peacefully in
his worship of God as formerly?"
"And that does not displease you either, grandmamma, does it? Come,
now, own it!"
"Oh, well; as long as it is just a little beneficial upset for him, I
don't mind; but I should not like it to develop into anything
serious--you understand where I draw the line?"
"No, because I always pity all those who are suffering from such
little upsets--as you call them--even when they are mild, I think they
are calculated to make people suffer greatly."
"You always see a darker side of things than I do; at all events, I
think that the idea of carrying Paul off is a very excessive and
unwise kind of remedy. He keeps a strict guard over himself, and no
one suspects the true state of things except you--"
"And all the others!"
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Well, even if it be so, that is of no importance, provided that Bijou
does not suspect it herself. Why do you not answer?"
"Because I am not of the same opinion as you, grandmamma, and you do
not like that as a rule, particularly when it is a question of Bijou."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said, nothing else."
"Then, according to you, Bijou has noticed it from--"
"From the very first day."
"And even if that should be so, she cannot help it! Besides, what
danger does she run?"
"None at all."
"Paul is honourable."
"Undoubtedly, and even if he were not, Bijou would have nothing to
fear for several reasons."
"What are they?"
"Well, in the first place--her own indifference. Paul makes about as
much impression on her, I believe, as a table."
"Next?"
"Next? Why, that's all!"
"You said 'several reasons,'--you have given me one; let us hear what
the others are."
"Oh, no!" said Madame de Rueille, "it was just my way of speaking."
"Nonsense! you are not clever at telling untruths, my dear Bertrade; I
am pretty sure I know what you thought!"
"I don't think you do."
"Well, you'll see! You were thinking that one of the reasons why Bijou
will never take any notice of Paul is--"
"Because he is married."
"Yes, of course; but you fancy, too, I am sure of it, that Bijou is
thinking of someone else? Ah, you see! you don't answer now! Yes, you
believe, as your husband does--he told me so two or three days
ago--that she is madly in love with young Giraud!"
"Oh, grandmamma, what an unlikely supposition! In the first place,
Bijou is not, and never will be, madly in love with anyone."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that when she marries, it will be in a reasonable, calm sort
of way, just as she does everything else."
"But when will it be?"
"When will it be? Well, I do not know exactly--soon, I think."
"Then you are saying that just at random? You are speaking of the
future in just a vague sort of way?"
"The future always is vague, grandmamma," answered Madame de Rueille,
smiling.