Then he resumed his walk, casting side glances at his assistant, whom he suspected of being an accomplice of the ladies, or at least of excusing them. Octave, also feeling anxious, slyly observed him. He had never before seen him so nervously excited. What was it all about? And, as he turned his head, he caught sight of Saturnin at the other end of the shop cleaning a looking-glass with a sponge dipped in spirit. Little by little, the family set the madman to do housework, so that he might at least earn his food. But that evening Saturnin’s eyes sparkled strangely. He crept behind Octave, and said, in a very low voice:
“Beware of him. He has found a paper. Yes, he has a paper in his pocket. Look out, if it’s anything of yours!”
And he quickly resumed rubbing his glass. Octave did not understand. For some time past the madman had been displaying a singular affection for him, like the caress of an animal yielding to an instinct. Why did he speak to him of a paper? He had written no letter to Berthe; as yet he only ventured to look at her with tender glances, watching for an opportunity of making her some trifling present. It was a tactic he had adopted after deep reflection.
“Ten minutes past eleven!—damnation! damnation!” suddenly exclaimed Auguste, who never swore.
But at that very moment the ladies returned. Berthe had on a delicious dress, of pink silk, embroidered over with white jet, whilst her sister, always in blue, and her mother, always in mauve, still wore their glaring and laboriously obtained costumes, altered every season. Madame Josserand, broad and imposing, entered first, so as at once to nip in the bud the reproaches which all three had just foreseen, at a council held at the end of the street, her son-in-law would begin to make. She even deigned to explain that they were late through having loitered before the shop-windows. But Auguste, who was very pale, did not utter a single complaint; he answered curtly; it was evident he was keeping it in and waiting. For a moment longer, the mother, who felt the coming storm through her great knowledge of domestic broils, tried to intimidate him; then she was obliged to go up-stairs, merely adding:
“Good night, my child. And sleep well, you know, if you wish to live long.”
Directly she had gone, Auguste, losing all patience, forgetting that Octave and Saturnin were present, withdrew a crumpled paper from his pocket, and thrust it under Berthe’s nose, whilst he stammered out:
“What’s that?”
Berthe had not even had time to take her bonnet off. She turned very red.
“That?” said she; “why, it’s a bill!”