“No, no, keep it,” exclaimed the priest, very amiably. “It is well where it is, and we will replace it by a more substantial one.”
He at once asked after Rose’s health, and greatly approved Gasparine’s coming to live with one of her relations. Single young ladies ran so many risks in Paris! He said these things with all his good priest’s unction, though fully aware of the real state of affairs.
When the Abbé Mauduit appeared, Octave had wished the Campardons good evening. As he crossed the ante-room, he heard Angèle’s voice in the now dark dining-room, she having also made her escape.
“Was it about the butter that she was kicking up such a row?” asked she.
“Of course,” answered another voice, which was Lisa’s. “She’s as spiteful as can be. You saw how she went on at me at dinner time. But I don’t care a fig! One must pretend to obey, with a person of that sort, but that doesn’t prevent our amusing ourselves all the same!”
Then, Angèle must have thrown her arms round Lisa’s neck, for her voice was drowned in the servant’s bosom.
“Yes, yes. And, afterward, so much the worse! it’s you I love!”
Octave was going up to bed, when a desire for fresh air brought him down again. It was not more than ten o’clock, he would stroll as far as the Palais-Royal. Now, he was single again: both Valérie and Madame Hédouin had declined to have anything to do with his heart, and he had been too hasty in restoring Marie to Jules, the only woman he had succeeded in conquering, and without having done anything for it.
As he was placing his foot on the pavement, a woman’s voice called to him; and he recognized Berthe at the door of the silk warehouse, the shutters of which were being put up by the porter.
“Is it true, Monsieur Mouret?” asked she, “have you really left ‘The Ladies’ Paradise?’”