It was the voice of Mlle. Bachellery who was furious at being left because of this departure and, believing herself alone with her mother, was talking to her in her habitual tongue. Hortense thought of the filial flatteries which had so often jarred upon her nerves and laughed to herself while returning to the carriage. Then, at the turn of an alley, she found herself face to face with Bouchereau. She stepped aside, but he laid hold of her arm.
“So you are going to leave us, my child?”
“Why, yes, sir.”
She hardly knew what to answer, startled by this meeting and surprised because it was the first time that he had ever spoken to her. Then he took her two hands in his own and held her that way in front of him, his arms wide apart, and gazed upon her fixedly from his piercing eyes under their brushy white brows. Then his lips and hands, his whole body trembled, while a rush of blood colored deeply his pallid face.
“Well, then, good-bye, happy journey!” And without another word he drew her to him and pressed her to his breast with the tenderness of a grandfather and then hastened away with both hands pressed against his heart, which seemed about to break.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SPEECH AT CHAMBÉRY.
“Non, non, je me fais hironde—e—elle
Et je m’envo—o—le à tire d’ai—le—”
The little Bachellery girl, clad in a fantastic cloak with a blue silk capuchon, to go with a little toque wound round with a great big veil, sang before her glass while finishing the buttoning of her gloves; her clear, sharp voice had risen that morning in full limpidity and in the best of humors. Spick and span for the excursion, the gay little body of her had a pleasant fragrance of fresh toilet and new gown, very neat and trig in contrast with the sloppy state of the hotel bedroom, where the remainder of a late supper was to be seen on the table, higgledy-piggledy with poker chips, cards and candles—all this close to the tumbled bed and a big bath-tub full of that gleaming “little milk” of Arvillard, so fine for calming the nerves and making the skin of the ladies bathing there as smooth as satin. Downstairs the basket-wagon was waiting, the horses shaking their bells and a full escort of youths caracoling in front of the porch.
Just as the toilet was finished a knock came at the door.