“Come in!”
Roumestan came in, much excited, and held out to her a large envelope:
“There, Mlle—O! read—read—”
It was her engagement at the opera for five years, with all the appointments she had wished, with the right of having her name printed big, and everything. When she had read it, article by article, coldly and with perfect poise, down to the great coarse signature of Cadaillac, then and only then she took one step towards the Minister, and, raising her veil, which was drawn closely about her face to keep out the dust on the trip, standing very close to him, her rosy beak in the air:
“You are very good—I love you—”
Nothing more than that was needed to make the man of the public forget all the embarrassments which this engagement was going to cause him. He restrained himself, however, and remained stiff, cold and frowning like a crag.
“Now, I have kept my promise and I withdraw—I do not care to disarrange your picnic party—”
“My picnic? Oh, yes, that’s so—we’re going to Château Bayard.”
And then, casting both her arms around his neck, she said in a wheedling voice:
“You’ve got to come with us; yes—O, yes, I tell you.”