“So much the worse! I must sit down a while on the floor. My legs will not bear me any longer.”
“I beg of you,” at length said Duveyrier, “to explain to me where she can possibly be.”
Bachelard and Gueulin looked at each other. It was a delicate matter. However, the uncle came to a manly decision, and he told the poor fellow everything, all Clarisse’s goings-on, her continual escapades, the lovers she picked up behind his back, at each of their parties. She had no doubt gone off with the last one, big Payan, that mason of whom a Southern town wished to make an artist. Duveyrier listened to the abominable story with an expression of horror. He allowed this cry of despair to escape him:
“There is, then, no honesty left on earth!”
And suddenly opening his heart, he told them all he had done for her.
“Leave her alone!” exclaimed Bachelard, delighted with the counselor’s misfortune, “she will humbug you again. There is nothing like virtue, understand! It is far better to take a little one devoid of malice, as innocent as the child just born. Then, there is no danger, one may sleep in peace.”
Trublot meanwhile was smoking, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out. He was gravely reposing, the others had forgotten him.
“If you particularly want it, I can find the address for you,” said he. “I know the maid.”
Duveyrier turned round, surprised at that voice which seemed to issue from the boards; and, when he beheld him smoking all that remained of Clarisse, puffing big clouds of smoke, in which he fancied he beheld the twenty-five thousand francs’ worth of furniture evaporating, he made an angry gesture and replied:
“No, she is unworthy of me. She must beg my pardon on her knees.”