Octave was very merry that morning. He wished to tease her.
“So it is Jules who won’t let you come into my room?” he kept saying. “How do you get on with Jules now? Is he amiable? Yes, you know what I mean. Answer now!”
She laughed, and was not at all scandalized.
“Why, of course! whenever you take him out, you treat him to vermouth, and tell him things which send him home like a madman. Oh I he is too amiable. You know, I don’t ask for so much. Still, I prefer it should take place at home than elsewhere, that’s very certain.”
She became serious again, and added:
“Here, I have brought you back your Balzac, I was not able to finish it. It’s too sad. That gentleman has nothing but disagreeable things to tell one!”
When Octave was dressed, he remembered his promise to go and see Madame Campardon. He had two good hours to while away, the funeral being timed for eleven o’clock, and he thought of utilizing his morning in making a few calls in the house. Rose received him in bed: he apologized, fearing that he disturbed her; but she herself called him in. They saw so little of him, and she was so delighted at having some one to talk to.
“Ah! my dear child,” declared she at once, “it is I who ought to be below, nailed up between four planks!”
Yes, the landlord was very lucky, he had finished with existence. And Octave, surprised at finding her a prey to such melancholy, asked her if she felt worse.
“No, thank you. It is always the same. Only there are times when I have had enough of it. Achille has been obliged to have a bed put up in his work-room, because it annoyed me whenever he moved in the night. And you know that Gasparine has yielded to our entreaties, and has left the drapery establishment. I am very grateful to her, she nurses me so tenderly! Ah! I could no longer live were it not for all these kind affections around me!”