The tragedy of M. Bouillard's indecision was very real to Madame
Chalumeau, but it was also one to which the good woman was thoroughly
accustomed. For over three years M. Bouillard had twice yearly, on the
fifth of March and the fifth of September, tried to bring himself to
make up his mind, but he had always failed, and after his attempts
things had continued as before.
Every morning he breakfasted with her, every Sunday and Feast-day he
accompanied her to Mass, and occasionally he took her to drink a glass
of Hydromel at the Café du Musée. He was a prosperous man in a small
way, and considered attractive by the widows and elderly maidens of
Falaise; but no one dreamed of disputing Madame Chalumeau's sway over
his heart. In time, Falaise thought, the two excellent people would
become one. But time is long.
So Bathilde, that fifth of September, felt a little sad as she worked in
her neat little shop. And so it is that Love is a troublesome little
vagabond, who ought to have his wings clipped and his bow broken.
There were few customers, for although her wools and silks were of
excellent quality, and her baby-linen most practical, the Rue Dessous
l'Arche is, after all, not the Rue d'Argentin. A little girl with a
bandage round her face came and bought six needles, and a Young Person,
whom Madame Chalumeau did not approve, spent several moments selecting a
pair of red stockings. Otherwise the shopkeeper's solitude remained
undisturbed until towards noon, when the door opened and a short,
brown-faced man, carrying a long whip, came in with a good deal of
noise, and waked her as she dozed over her knitting.
"_Bonjour_, Thildette! Frightened you, did I?"
"Oh, Colibris, it is you! And what brings you? You will breakfast with
me? But I am glad to see you, dear brother? How is Marie?"
"Tà, tà, tà, tà!" laughed M. Colibris, who looked like nothing in the
world less than he looked like a humming-bird, "so many questions, my
excellent Thildette! Yes, I will breakfast--a cheese omelet, my dear,
and a glass of cider--and Marie is as well as one could expect. Ah,
these children, these children! It is a boy, of course. A boy with fists
as big as his head."
Madame Chalumeau had risen, and had led her guest through the
sitting-room into her immaculate kitchen.
"And you have seen papa and maman?" she asked.
"Yes, I come from there. Papa is much pleased that it is a boy. His
eleventh great-grandson! One would think," continued the good man
garrulously, "that it was his own son. Maman is looking much better,
_pas_?"
"Mama is quite wonderful. But amazing! And the preparations are
something splendid. I suppose this new boy will contribute his share to
the wedding ring for maman?"
"But certainly. It is lucky there are no more of us men to contribute,
or we should have had to have the ring studded with diamonds. A fine
sight it will be, Bathilde. Think of papa and mama married at St.
Gervais by the same curé that married them fifty years ago! And twenty
grandchildren, to say nothing of their seven children, and counting this
boy of my Marie's, sixteen great-grandchildren. Falaise has certainly
much to be proud of."
Madame Chalumeau flopped her omelet again, slid it to a platter and set
a carafe of cider on the table.
"_Là!_ Now eat, Colibris, and tell me more. How is Louis? And
Henriette?"
"All well, all well," returned her brother-in-law, who was apparently
full of the quality, the name of which is so often abused by English
people, _joie-de-vivre_. "Henriette has new upper teeth, and looks ten
years younger. Louis is as usual very silent, but otherwise is well. I
am curious to see Victor. It was a misfortune, my being away when he was
here last. He must have been greatly disappointed. He has always been
very fond of me, you will remember. Even as boys, we had much in
common."
Madame Chalumeau's eyes twinkled as she nodded. Colibris' harmless
vanity always amused her.
"Yes, yes, I know. He inquired very particularly for you. A great man,
Victor."
"Yes, yes. I remember once when we were boys a man came who felt the
skull and read the character. He said to Victor, 'You have great talent,
my little one,' and to me he said, 'You are going to be a very great
man, Colibris.' But I did not care to develop my talents. I was always
very modest and domestic. The curé at home always says, 'Now, Jacques
Colibris--_there's_ a man who is a model husband and father.'" He drank
a deep draught of cider.
"They arrive to-morrow," interpolated Madame Chalumeau hastily, with a
hunted expression, "Victor and Félicité and Théodore. Also Théo's
_fiancée_, an English girl. I have a letter from Victor--I will read it
to you."
Taking the letter from her pocket, and ruthlessly interrupting his
remarks on the English as viewed by himself, she began to read:
"My dear Sister--On Tuesday we shall arrive, I, my wife, our
boy, and his _fiancée_, Lady Brigit Mead. She is a very beautiful and
charming young lady, and I am sure you will all admire her. Félicité,
who is very wise, fears that she, Lady Brigit, may not care for Falaise,
for she is, my dear sister, the daughter of a Count. But I, who am even
wiser, know that she will. Dear Falaise, to me always the most beautiful
town in the world, who could help loving thee? Now, my good Bathilde, I
wish you to go to Berton of the Chevreuil d'Or and engage rooms for Lady
Brigit. Two rooms, one without a bed, for a _salon_. Tell him they must
be very nice, and you, I know, will see that they are clean. We, of
course, will lodge in the Rue Victor Hugo with the old people. My
affectionate salutations to you all, my dear sister, from your devoted
brother,
"Victor."
"He is a charming personality, isn't he, Colibris?" asked Madame
Chalumeau, folding the letter and beaming with satisfaction. "I am
curious to see this lady. The daughter of a Count, _fichtre_! And very
beautiful. That must please Victor; he has an eye for beauty."
"Yes, yes," returned Jacques Colibris absently, filling his glass with
cider, "it is an excellent thing. I, too, have it, the eye for beauty.
Only the other day, looking at the new blue wash I have put on the
walls, old Madame Thibaut was saying----"
"What an eye for beauty you have!" cut short Madame Chalumeau
ruthlessly. "Well, Jacques, I must now make myself presentable and go to
the Rue d'Argentin. Berton will no doubt be very proud to have a lady in
his inn--although many English people stop there. It is curious," she
added, putting her plate on his and carrying them to a distant table,
"what an interest _ces Anglais_ take in le Conquérant. As an enemy, one
who conquered their country, one would think they would dislike his
memory, but they do not. Very generous of them, I always think."