And all of a sudden, looking down the alley, he cried:
“By George, there they are!—I am off—”
Away down there at the end of the alley, on the little gravelled circle whence the band was sending its last note, there was a movement of umbrellas and light-colored gowns among the foliage, just as the first strokes of the dinner bells were heard from the hotels. The ladies Le Quesnoy detached themselves from a group of lively, chatting people, Hortense tall and slender in the sunlight, in a toilet of muslin and valenciennes, a hat trimmed with roses and in her hand a bouquet of the same kind of rose bought in the park.
“With whom were you talking just now, Numa? We thought it was Dr. Bouchereau.”
There she was before him, dazzling in her youth and so brilliant, on that happy day, that her mother herself began to lose her fears and allowed a little of that infectious gayety to be reflected on her ancient face.
“Yes, it was Bouchereau, who was recounting to me his miseries; he’s pretty low, poor fellow!”
And Numa, looking at her, reassured himself.
“The man is crazy; it is not possible; it’s his own death he is dragging about with him and prognosticates everywhere.”
At that moment Bompard appeared, walking very quickly and brandishing a newspaper.
“What is up?” asked the Minister.