“Well! listen,” murmured she rapidly, popping the box into her pocket, “I’ll say that my sister Hortense made me a present of them.”
Auguste gave orders for the gas to be turned out, and then went up with her to bed, without saying a word about the quarrel, delighted at heart at finding her all right again and very lively, as though nothing had taken place between them. The warehouse became wrapped in intense darkness; and, just as Octave was also retiring, he felt hot hands squeezing his own almost sufficient to crush them in the obscurity. It was Saturnin, who slept in the basement.
“Friend—friend—friend,” repeated the madman, with an outburst of wild tenderness.
Disconcerted in his expectations, Octave little by little became seized with a young and passionate desire for Berthe. If he had at first been merely following his old plan, his wish to succeed by the aid of women, he now no longer beheld in her the employer simply, whose possession would place the whole establishment in his hands; he desired above all the Parisian, that adorable creature of luxury and grace, which he had never had an opportunity of tasting at Marseilles; he felt a sudden hunger for her little gloved hands, her tiny feet encased in high-heeled boots, her delicate neck hidden by gewgaws, even for the questionable unseen, the make-shifts which, he suspected, were covered by her gorgeous costumes; and this sudden attack of passion went so far as to get the better of his shrewd economical nature to the extent of causing him to squander in presents and all sorts of other expenses the five thousand francs which he had brought with him from the South, and had already doubled by financial operations which he never mentioned to anybody.
On the morrow of the quarrel, Octave, delighted at having prevailed on the young woman to accept his present, thought that it would be well for him to ingratiate himself with the husband. Therefore, as he took his meals at his employer’s table—the latter being in the habit of feeding his assistants, so as always to have them at hand—he showed him the utmost attention, listened to him at desserts and warmly approved all he said. He even went so far in private as to appear to sympathize with his complaints against his wife, pretending, too, to watch her, and making him little reports. Auguste felt greatly touched; he admitted one night to the young man that he had been on the point of discharging him, under the idea that he was conniving with his mother-in-law.
“You understand me, you do!” he would say to the young man. “I merely want peace. Beyond that I don’t care a hang, virtue excepted, of course, and providing my wife doesn’t carry off the cash-box. Eh? am I not reasonable? I don’t ask her for anything extraordinary?”
And Octave lauded his wisdom, and they celebrated together the sweetness of an uneventful existence, year after year, always the same, passed in measuring off silk. One evening he had alarmed Auguste by reverting to his dream of vast modern bazars, and by advising him, as he had advised Madame Hédouin, to purchase the adjoining house, so as to enlarge his premises. Auguste, whose head was already splitting between his four counters, had looked at him with the frightened air of a tradesman accustomed to dividing farthings into four, that he had hastened to withdraw his suggestion and to go into raptures over the honest security of small dealings.
Days passed by; Octave was making his little nest in the place, a cozy nest lined with wool which would keep him nice and warm. The husband esteemed him; Madame Josserand herself, with whom, however, he avoided being too polite, looked at him encouragingly. As for Berthe, she was becoming charmingly familiar with him. But his great friend was Saturnin, whose dumb affection he felt was increasing daily—a faithful dog’s devotion which grew as his longing for the young woman became more intense. Toward every one else the madman displayed a gloomy jealousy; a man could not approach his sister without his becoming at once uneasy, curling up his lips, and preparing to bite. But if, on the contrary, Octave leant freely toward her, and caused her to laugh with the soft and tender laughter of a happy mistress, he laughed himself with delight, and his face reflected a little of their sensual joy. The poor creature seemed to feel a gratitude full of happiness for the chosen lover. He would detain the latter in all the corners, casting mistrustful glances about; then, if he found they were alone, he would speak to him of her, always repeating the same stories in broken phrases.
“When she was little, she had tiny limbs as large as that; and already plump, and quite rosy, and so gay; then, she used to sprawl about on the floor. It amused me; I would go down on my knees and watch her. Then, bang! bang! bang! she would kick me in the stomach, and I would be so pleased, oh! so pleased!”
Octave thus learnt all about Berthe’s childhood, with its little ailments, its playthings, its growth of a charming, uncontrolled little creature.