Midnight struck. Octave, quite tired out, stood listening, fearing to hear the rustling of her skirts along the narrow passage. At half past twelve, he was seized with real anxiety; at one o’clock, he thought himself saved, but a secret irritation mingled with his relief, the annoyance of a man made a fool of by a woman. But, just as he made up his mind to undress himself, yawning for want of sleep, there came three gentle taps at the door. It was Berthe. He felt both annoyed and flattered, and advanced to meet her with open arms, when she motioned him aside, and stood trembling and listening against the door, which she had hastily shut after her.
“What is the matter?” asked he, in a low voice.
“I don’t know, I was frightened,” stammered she. “It is so dark on the stairs, I thought that somebody was following me. Dear me! how stupid all this is! Some harm is sure to happen to us.”
This chilled them both. They did not even kiss each other.
“I am going back,” said she, without leaving her chair.
“What, you are going?”
“Do you think I sell myself? You are always hurting my feelings; you have again spoilt all my pleasure to-night. Why did you buy it, when I forbade you to do so?”
She got up, and at length consented to look at it. But, when she opened the box, she experienced such a disappointment, that she could not restrain this indignant exclamation:
“What! it is not Chantilly at all, it is llama!”
Octave, who was reducing his presents, had yielded to a miserly idea. He tried to explain to her that there was some superb llama, quite equal to Chantilly; and he praised up the article, just as though he had been behind his counter, making her feel the lace, and swearing that it would last her forever. But she shook her head, and silenced him by observing contemptuously.