His moment of triumph had come, but it was no sooner over than all the ferocious disdain of woman which was hidden beneath his air of wheedling adoration, returned. And when Berthe rose up, without strength in her wrists, and her face contracted by a pang, her utter contempt for man was thrown into the dark glance which she cast upon him. The room was wrapped in complete silence. One only heard Saturnin, on the other side of the door, polishing her husband’s boot with a regular movement of the brush.
Octave’s thoughts reverted to Valérie and Madame Hédouin. At last he was something more than little Pichon’s lover! It seemed like a rehabilitation in his own eyes. Then, encountering Berthe’s uneasy glance, he experienced a slight sense of shame, and kissed her with extreme gentleness. She was resuming her air of resolute recklessness, and, with a gesture, seemed to say: “What’s done can’t be undone.” But she afterward experienced the necessity of giving expression to a melancholy thought.
“Ah! If you had only married me!” murmured she.
He felt surprised, almost uneasy; but this did not prevent him from replying, as he kissed her again:
“Oh! yes, how nice it would have been!”
That evening the dinner with the Josserands was most delightful, Berthe had never shown herself so gentle. She did not say a word of the quarrel to her parents, she received her husband with an air of submission. The latter, delighted, took Octave aside to thank him; and he imparted so much warmth into the proceeding, pressing his hands and displaying such a lively gratitude, that the young man felt quite embarrassed. Moreover, they one and all overwhelmed him with marks of their affection. Saturnin, who behaved very well at table, looked at him with approving eyes. Hortense on her part deigned to listen to him, whilst Madame Josserand, full of maternal encouragement, kept filling his glass.
“Dear me! yes,” said Berthe at dessert, “I intend to resume my painting. For a long time past I have been wanting to decorate a cup for Auguste.”
The latter was deeply moved at this loving conjugal thought. Ever since the soup, Octave had kept his foot on the young woman’s under the table; it was like a taking of possession in the midst of this little middle-class gathering. Yet Berthe was not without a secret uneasiness before Rachel, whose eyes she always found looking her through and through. Was it, then, visible? The girl was decidedly one to be sent away or else to be bought over.
Monsieur Josserand, who was near his daughter, finished soothing her by passing her nineteen francs done up in paper under the tablecloth. He bent down and whispered in her ear:
“You know, they come from my little work. If you owe anything, you must pay it.”