The voices were becoming louder, the champagne was upsetting the good behavior established by Clarisse. In her drawing-room the conclusion of all the parties was invariably rather lively. She herself would make a mistake sometimes. Trublot drew Octave’s attention to her as she stood behind a door with her arms round the neck of a fellow with the build of a peasant, a stone carver just arrived from the South, and whom his native town wished to make an artist of. But, Duveyrier having pushed the door, she quickly removed her arms, and recommended the young man to him: Monsieur Payan, a sculptor with a very graceful talent; and Duveyrier, delighted, promised to obtain some work for him.
“Work, work,” repeated Gueulin, in a low voice; “he has as much here as he can want, the big ninny!”
Toward two o’clock, when the three young men and the uncle left the Rue de la Cerisaie, the latter was completely drunk.
“Hang it all, uncle! keep yourself up! you’re breaking our arms!”
He, with his throat full of sobs, had become very tender hearted and very moral.
“Go away, Gueulin,” stuttered he; “go away! I won’t have you see your uncle in such a state. No, my boy, it’s not right; go away!”
And as his nephew called him an old rogue:
“Rogue! that’s nothing. One must make oneself respected. I esteem women—always decent women; and when there’s no feeling it disgusts me. Go away, Gueulin, you’re making your uncle blush. These gentlemen are sufficient.”
“Then,” declared Gueulin, “you must give me a hundred francs. Really, I want them for my rent. They’re going to turn me out.”
At this unexpected demand, Bachelard’s intoxication increased to such an extent that he had to be propped up against the shutters of a warehouse. He stuttered: