“The best thing for me to do for the present is to make it up with my wife; do you not think so?”
“It would, perhaps, be wise,” replied the young man, obliged to answer.
Then, Duveyrier felt the necessity of regretting his father-in-law. He was a man of great intelligence, with an incredible capacity for work. However, they would, very likely, be able to set him on his legs again. In the Rue de Choiseul, they found the street-door open, and quite a group gathered before Monsieur Gourd’s room. But they held their tongues, directly they caught sight of Duveyrier.
“Well?” inquired the latter.
“The doctor is applying mustard poultices to Monsieur Vabre,” replied Hippolyte. “Oh! I had such difficulty to find him!”
Up-stairs in the drawing-room, Madame Duveyrier came forward to meet them. She had cried a great deal, her eyes sparkled beneath the swollen lids. The counselor, full of embarrassment, opened his arms; and he embraced her as he murmured:
“My poor Clotilde!”
Surprised at this unusual display of affection, she drew back. Octave had kept behind; but he heard the husband add, in a low voice:
“Forgive me, let us forget our grievances on this said occasion. You see, I have come back to you, and for always. Ah! I am well punished!”
She did not reply, but disengaged herself. Then, resuming in Octave’s presence her attitude of a woman who desires to ignore everything, she said: