She looked about for Hortense, and at length caught sight of her talking to a gentleman, of whom she could only see the back, but whom she recognized by its breadth. It was Verdier. This increased her ill-humor. She sharply called the young girl to her, and, lowering her voice, told her that she would do better to remain at her mother’s disposal on such a day as that. Hortense did not listen to the reprimand. She was triumphant; Verdier had just fixed their marriage at two months from then, in June.
“Shut up!” said the mother.
“I assure you, mamma. He already sleeps out three nights a week so as to accustom the other to it, and in a fortnight he will stop away altogether. Then it will be all over, and I shall have him.”
“Shut up! I have already had more than enough of your romance! You will just oblige me by waiting near the door for Doctor Juillerat, and by sending him to me the moment he arrives. And, above all, not a word of all this to your sister!”
She returned to the adjoining room, leaving Hortense muttering that, thank goodness! she required no one’s approbation, and that they would all be nicely caught one day, when they saw her make a better marriage than the others. Yet, she went to the door, and watched for the doctor’s arrival.
The orchestra was now playing a waltz. Berthe was dancing with one of her husband’s young cousins, so as to dispose of the relations in turn. All the guests had an air of amusing themselves immensely, and expatiated before them on the liveliness of the ball. It was, according to Campardon, a liveliness of a good standard.
The architect, with an effusion of gallantry, concerned himself a great deal about Valérie’s condition, without, however, missing a dance. He had the idea to send his daughter Angèle for news in his name. The child, whose fourteen years had been burning with curiosity since the morning around the lady that every one was talking about, was delighted at being able to penetrate into the little room. And, as she did not return, the architect was obliged to take the liberty of slightly opening the door and thrusting his head in. He beheld his daughter standing up beside the sofa, deeply absorbed by the sight of Valérie, whose bosom, shaken by spasms, had escaped from the unhooked bodice. Protestations arose, the ladies called to him not to come in; and he withdrew, assuring them that he merely wished to know how she was getting on.
“She is no better, she is no better,” said he, in a melancholy way to the persons who happened to be near the door. “There are four of them holding her. How strong a woman must be, to be able to bound about like that without hurting herself!”
But Doctor Juillerat quickly crossed the ball-room, accompanied by Hortense, who was explaining matters to him. Madame Duveyrier followed them. Some persons showed their surprise, more rumors circulated. Scarcely had the doctor disappeared than Madame Josserand left the little room with Madame Dambreville. Her rage was increasing; she had just emptied two water bottles over Valerie’s head; never before had she seen a woman as nervous as that. Then she had decided to make the round of the ball-room, so as to stop all remarks by her presence. Only, she walked with such a terrible step, she distributed such sour smiles, that every one behind her was let into the secret.