She brushed her long pencilled eyelashes across his cheek and even nibbled a little at his statuesque chin, but not very hard, with the ends of her little teeth.
“What! with those young people? Why, it is impossible. You cannot dream of it?”
“Those young people? Much do I care for those young people! I will just let them rip—Mamma will let them know—oh, they are used to it!—You hear, Mamma?”
“I’m going,” said Mme. Bachellery, whom one could see in the next chamber with her foot on a chair, trying to force over her red stockings a pair of cloth gaiters much too small for her. She made the Minister one of her famous courtesies from the Folies Bordelaises and hurried downstairs to send the young gentlemen flying.
“Keep a horse for Bompard; he will come with us,” cried the little girl after her; and Numa, touched by this attention, enjoyed the delicious pleasure of holding this pretty girl in his arms and hearing all that impertinent gang of young people walk off at a funeral pace with their ears drooping. Many a time had their jumpings and skippings caused his heart a lively time. One kiss applied for a long moment on a smile which promised everything—then she disengaged herself.
“Hurry up and dress yourself; I’m in haste to be on the way.”
What a buzz of curiosity through the hotel, what a movement behind the green blinds, when it was known that the Minister had joined the picnic at Château Bayard and that his big white waistcoat and the Panama hat shading his Roman face were seen displayed in the basket-wagon in front of the little singer! After all, just as Father Olivieri who had learned a lot during his voyages remarked, what harm was there in it, anyhow? Didn’t her mother accompany them, and Château Bayard, a historical monument, did it or did it not belong to the public buildings under Ministerial control? So let us not be so intolerant, great Heavens! especially in regard to men who give up their entire life to the defence of the right doctrines and our holy religion!
“Bompard is not coming—what’s the matter with him?” murmured Roumestan, impatient at having to wait there before the hotel exposed to all those plunging glances which volleyed upon him notwithstanding the canopy of the carriage. At a window in the first story an extraordinary something appeared, a something white and round and exotic, which spake in the voice of the former chieftain of Circassians, “Go on ahead, I’ll rejine you!”
Just as if they had only been waiting for the word, the two mules, low in shoulder but solid in hoof, got away shaking their travelling-bells, crossed the park in three jumps and whirled past the bathing establishment.
“Ware! ware!”