“Well, there certainly are some people who are very mean,” interrupted the young girl, who had turned quite pale under her roses. The reader continued, with eyes staring in horror at the dreadful things he saw coming:
“—this goat whistler; to him is due that our Academy of Music appeared for the space of an evening like the return from the fair at Saint Cloud. In truth it would take a very crack fifer indeed to believe that Paris—”
The Minister rudely dragged the newspaper from his hand.
“I hope you don’t intend to read us that idiocy to the bitter end, do you? it is quite enough to have brought it to us at all.”
He ran down the article with his eye, with one of those quick glances of the public man who is used to reading the invectives of the daily press. “A provincial Minister—a pretty clog-dancer—Valmajour’s own Roumestan—hissed the Ministry and smashed his tabor—”
He had enough of it, thrust the virulent paper down into the bottom of his pocket, then rose, puffing with the rage that swelled his face, and taking Mme. Le Quesnoy by the arm:
“Come, let’s go to dinner, Mamma—this should teach me not to fret myself for the sake of a parcel of nobodies.”
All four marched along together, Hortense with her eyes upon the ground in a state of consternation.
“This is a matter concerning an artist of great talent,” said she, trying to strengthen her voice, a little veiled in its tone. “One ought not to hold him responsible for the injustice done him by the public nor for the irony of the newspapers.”
Roumestan came to a dead stop.