“No, no,” replied Rose, in a melancholy tone. “You see, I eat; I look very well. But it gets no better; it will never get any better.”
As she began to cry, Gasparine, in her turn, took her in her arms and pressed her against her flat and ardent breast, whilst Campardon hastened to console them.
“Why do you cry?” asked she maternally. “The main thing is that you do not suffer. What does it matter if you have always people about you to love you?”
Rose was becoming calmer, and already smiling amidst her tears. Then the architect, carried away by his feelings, clasped them both in the same embrace, kissing them alternately, and stammering:
“Yes, yes, we will love each other very much, we will love you such a deal, my poor little duck. You will see how well everything will go, now that we are united.”
And, turning toward Octave, he added:
“Ah! my dear fellow, people may talk, there is nothing, after all, like family ties!”
The end of the evening was delightful. Campardon, who usually fell asleep on leaving the table if he remained at home, recovered all his artist’s gayety, the old jokes and the broad songs of the School of Fine Arts. When, toward eleven o’clock, Gasparine prepared to leave, Rose insisted on accompanying her to the door, in spite of the difficulty she experienced in walking that day: and, leaning over the balustrade, in the grave silence of the staircase, she called after her:
“Come and see us often!”