Octave watched him with a smile as he went downstairs. Then, as it was almost lunch time, he decided to return the key of the loft later on. During lunch, at the Campardons’, he particularly watched Lisa, who waited at table. She had her usual clean and agreeable look; but, in his mind, he could still hear her defiling her lips with the most abominable words. His knowledge of women had not deceived him with respect to that girl with the flat chest. Madame Campardon continued to be enchanted with her, surprised that she did not steal anything, which was a fact, for her vice was of a different kind. Moreover, the girl seemed very kind to Angèle, and the mother entirely trusted her.
It so happened, that on that day Angèle disappeared when the dessert was placed on the table, and she could be heard laughing in the kitchen. Octave ventured to make an observation.
“You are perhaps wrong, to let her be so free with the servants.”
“Oh! there is not much harm in it,” replied Madame Campardon, in her languid way. “Victoire saw my husband born, and I am so sure of Lisa. Besides, how can I help it? the child gives me a headache. I should go crazy, if I heard her jumping about me all day.”
The architect gravely chewed the end of his cigar.
“It is I,” said he, “who make Angèle pass two hours in the kitchen, every afternoon. I wish her to become a good housewife. It teaches her a great deal. She never goes out, my dear fellow, she is continually under our sheltering wing. You will see what a jewel we shall make of her.”
Octave said no more. On certain days, Campardon appeared to him to be very stupid; and as the architect pressed him to go and hear a great preacher at Saint-Roch, he refused, obstinately persisting in remaining indoors. After telling Madame Campardon that he would not dine with them that evening, he was returning to his room, when he felt the key of the loft in his pocket. He preferred to go down and return it at once. But on the landing an unexpected sight attracted his attention. The door of the room let to the highly distinguished gentleman, whose name was never mentioned, happened to be open; and this was quite an event, for it was invariably shut, as though barred by the silence of the tomb. His surprise increased: he was looking for the gentleman’s work-table, and in its stead had discovered the corner of a big bedstead, when he beheld a slim lady dressed in black, her face hidden behind a thick veil, come out of the room, whilst the door closed noiselessly behind her.
Then, his curiosity being roused, he followed the lady downstairs, to find out if she were pretty. But she hastened along with an anxious nimbleness, scarcely touching the Wilton carpet with her tiny boots, and leaving no trace in the house, save a faint odour of verbena. As he reached the vestibule, she disappeared, and he only beheld Monsieur Gourd standing under the porch, cap in hand and bowing very low to her.
When the young man had returned the doorkeeper his key, he tried to make him talk.
“She looks very lady-like,” said he. “Who is she?”