“All the same,” concluded the architect, “Duveyrier’s hooked again. His poor wife———”
He intended saying that Clotilde was probably relieved and delighted. Only, he remembered a second time that Angèle was present, and put on a doleful air to declare:
“Relations do not always agree together. Yes! every family has its worries.”
Lisa, on the other side of the table, with a napkin on her arm, looked at Angèle, and the latter, seized with a mad fit of laughter, hastened to take a long drink, and hide her face in her glass.
A little before ten o’clock, Octave pretended to be very fatigued, and retired to his room. In spite of Rose’s affectionate ways, he was ill at ease in that family circle, where he felt Gasparine’s hostility to him to be ever on the increase. Yet, he had never done anything to her. She detested him for being a handsome man, she suspected him of having overcome all the women of the house, and that exasperated her, though she did not desire him the least in the world, but merely yielded, at the thought of his happiness, to the instinctive anger of a woman whose beauty had faded too soon.
Directly he had left, the family talked of retiring for the night. Before getting into bed, Rose spent an hour in her dressing-room every evening. She proceeded to wash and scent herself all over, then did her hair, examined her eyes, her mouth, her ears, and even placed a tiny patch under her chin. At night-time, she replaced her luxury of dressing-gowns by a luxury of night-caps and chemises.
On that occasion she selected a chemise and a cap trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Gasparine had assisted her, handing her the basins, wiping up the water she spilt, drying her with a soft towel, little things which she did far better than Lisa.
“Ah! I do feel comfortable!” said Rose at length, stretched out in her bed, whilst the cousin tucked in the sheets and raised the bolster.
And she laughed with delight, all alone in the middle of the big bed. With her soft, delicate, and spotless body, reclining amidst the lace, she looked like some beautiful creature awaiting the idol of her heart. When she felt herself pretty, she slept better, she used to say. Besides, it was the only pleasure left her.
“Is it all right?” asked Campardon, entering the room. “Well! good-night, little duck.”