People talked only of him, occupied themselves about him only. Any pretext was good enough to introduce oneself into the Alpes Dauphinoises in order to pass before the little drawing-room on the ground floor looking into the garden where the Minister took his meals with his ladies and his secretary; to see him taking a hand in a game of bowls, dear to Southern Frenchmen, with Father Olivieri of the Missions, a holy man and terribly hairy, who, along of having lived among savages, had taken unto himself their manners and customs, uttering terrible cries when taking aim and brandishing the balls above his head when letting fly as if they were tomahawks.
The Minister’s handsome features, the oiliness of his manners, won him all hearts, but more especially his sympathy for the poor. The day after his arrival the two waiters who served on the first floor announced at the hotel office that the Minister was going to take them to Paris for his personal servants. Now, as they were good workmen, Mme. Laugeron pulled a very wry face, but allowed nothing to be seen by his Excellency, whose presence was of such great importance and honor to her hotel. The prefect and the rector made their appearance from Grenoble in full fig to present their respects to Roumestan. The Abbot of La Grande Chartreuse—for Roumestan made a pleading on their side against the Prémontrés and their liqueur—sent him with the greatest pomp a case of extra-fine chartreuse; and finally the Prefect of Chambéry came to get his orders for the laying of the corner-stone for the new college, a good occasion for a manifesto in a speech and for a revolution in the methods at the universities.
But the Minister asked for a little rest. The labors of the session had wearied him; he wanted to have a chance to get a breath, to live quietly in the midst of his family and prepare at leisure this Chambéry speech, which had such a considerable importance. And the prefect understood that perfectly well; he only asked to be notified forty-eight hours before in order that he might give the necessary brilliancy to the ceremony. The corner-stone had been waiting for two months and would naturally wait longer for the good-will of the illustrious orator.
As a matter of fact, what kept Roumestan at Arvillard was neither the necessity for rest nor the leisure needed by that marvellous improvisator—upon whom time and reflection had the same effect as humidity upon phosphorus—but the presence of Alice Bachellery. After five months of an impassioned flirtation, Numa had got no further with his little one than he was on the day of their first meeting. He haunted the house, enjoyed the savory bouillabaisse cooked by Mme. Bachellery, listened to the songs of the former director of the Folies Bordelaises, and repaid these slight favors with a flood of presents, bouquets, Ministerial theatre boxes, tickets to meetings of the Institute and the Chamber of Deputies, and even with the diploma of Officer of Academy for the song-writer—all this without getting his love affair one bit ahead.
Nevertheless, he was not one of those fresh hands who are ready to go fishing at every hour without having tried the water beforehand and thoroughly baited it; only he was engaged in an affair with the cleverest kind of trout, who amused herself with his precautions, now and then nibbled at the bait and sometimes gave him the impression that she was caught; but then, all of a sudden, with one of her bounds she would skip away, leaving him with his mouth dry with longing and his heart shaken by the motions of her undulating, subtle and tempting spine.
Nothing was more enervating than this little game. Numa could have caused it to stop at any minute by giving the little girl what she demanded, namely, a nomination as prima donna at the opera, a contract for five years, large extras, allowance for fire, the right to have her name displayed—all that stipulated on paper bearing the government stamp, and not merely by a simple clasp of the hand, or by Cadaillac’s “Here’s my hand on it!” She believed no more in that than she did in the expressions, “You may depend upon me for it”—“It’s just the same as if you had it”—phrases with which for the past five months Roumestan had been trying to dupe her.
Roumestan found himself between two pressing demands. “Yes,” said Cadaillac, “all right—if you will renew my own lease.” Now Cadaillac was used up and done with; his presence at the head of the first musical theatre was a scandal, a blot, a rotten heritage from the Imperial administration. The press would certainly raise an outcry against a gambler who had failed three times and was not allowed to wear his officer’s cross, against a cynical poseur who dissipated the public money without any shame.
Finally, wearied out with not being able to allow herself to be captured, Alice broke the fish-line and skipped away, carrying the fish-hook with her.
One day the Minister arrived at the Bachellery house and found it empty, except for the father, who, in order to console him, sang his last popular refrain for his benefit:
“Donne-moi d’quoi q’t’as, t’auras d’quoi qu’ j’ai.”