“The weather is so bad!” he abruptly remarked. “It is quite impossible to keep one’s trousers clean!”
Madame Vuillaume talked of a girl at Batignolles who had gone to the bad.
“You will scarcely believe me, sir,” said she. “She had been exceedingly well brought up; but she felt so bored at her parents’, that she had twice tried to throw herself into the street. It is incredible!”
“They should have put bars on the windows,” said Monsieur Vuillaume simply.
The dinner was delightful. This kind of conversation lasted all the time around the modest board lighted by a little lamp. Pichon and Monsieur Vuillaume, having got on to the staff of the Ministry, did nothing but talk of head-clerks and second head-clerks; the father-in-law obstinately alluded to those of his time, then recollected that they were dead; whilst, on his side, the son-in-law continued to speak of the new ones, in the midst of an inextricable confusion of names. The two men, however, as well as Madame Vuillaume, agreed on one point: fat Chavignat, he who had such an ugly wife, had gone in for a great deal too many children. It was absurd for a man of his position. And Octave smiled, feeling happy and at his ease; he had not spent such an agreeable evening for a long time; he even ended by blaming Chavignat with conviction. Marie quieted him with her clear, innocent look, devoid of emotion at seeing him seated beside her husband, helping them both according to their tastes, with her rather tired air of passive obedience.
Punctually at ten o’clock, the Vuillaumes rose to take their departure. Pichon put on his hat. Every Sunday he saw them to the omnibus. Out of deference, he had got into the habit about the time of his marriage, and the Vuillaumes would have been deeply offended had he now tried to give it up. All three made for the Rue de Richelieu, then walked slowly up it, searching with a glance the Batignolles omnibuses which kept passing full, so that Pichon often went thus as far as Montmartre; for he would never have thought of leaving his father and mother-in-law before seeing them into an omnibus. As they could not walk fast, it took him close upon two hours to go there and back.
They exchanged some friendly handshakes on the landing. Octave, on returning to the room with Marie, said quietly, “It rains; Jules will not get back before midnight.”
And, as Lilitte had been put to bed early, he at once took Marie on his knees, and drank the rest of the coffee with her out of the same cup, like a husband glad at having got rid of his guests and at finding himself again in the quiet of his home, excited by a little family gathering, and able to kiss his wife at his case, with the doors closed. A pleasant warmth filled the narrow room, where some frosted eggs had left an odour of vanilla. He was gently kissing the young woman under the chin, when some one knocked. Marie did not even give a start of affright. It was young Josserand, he who was a bit cracked. Whenever he could escape from the apartment opposite, he would come in this way to chat with her, attracted by her gentleness; and they both got on well together, remaining ten minutes at a time without speaking, exchanging at distant intervals phrases which had no connection with each other. Octave, very much put out, remained silent.
“They’ve some people there,” stuttered Saturnin. “I don’t care a hang for their not letting me dine with them! So I took the lock off and bolted. It serves them right.”
“They will be anxious; you ought to go back,” said Marie, who noticed Octave’s impatience.