And Marie showed herself in her chemise also. She had heard all the disturbance, and had slipped out of bed, leaving Jules asleep, whilst she remained listening in her little dining-room without a light.
“Come in. You are in trouble. I am a friend.”
She gently reassured her, and told her all that had taken place. The men had not hurt each other: he had cursed and swore, and pushed the chest of drawers up against his door, to shut himself in; whilst the other had gone down-stairs with a bundle in his hand, the things she had left behind, her shoes and petticoat, which he must have rolled up mechanically in her dressing-gown, on seeing them lying about. In short, it was all over. It would be easy enough to prevent them fighting on the morrow.
But Berthe remained standing on the threshold with a remnant of fear and shame at thus entering the abode of a lady whom she did not habitually frequent. Marie was obliged to lead her in by the hand.
“You will sleep there, on that sofa. I will lend you a shawl, and I will go and see your mother. Good heavens! what a misfortune! When one is in love, one does not stop to think.”
“Ah! for the little pleasure we had!” said Berthe, with a sigh, which was full of the cruelty and stupidity of her unprofitable night. “He does right to swear. If he’s like me, he’s had more than enough of it!”
They were on the point of speaking of Octave. They said nothing further, but suddenly fell sobbing into each other’s arms in the dark. Their limbs clasped with a convulsive passion, their bosoms, hot with tears, were pressed close together beneath their crumpled chemises. It was a final weariness, an immense sadness, the end of everything. They did not say another word, whilst their tears flowed, flowed without ceasing, in the midst of the darkness and of the profound slumber of that house so full of decency.
CHAPTER XV.
That morning the house awoke with a great middle-class dignity. Nothing of the staircase preserved a trace of the scandals of the night, neither the imitation marble which had reflected that gallop of a woman in her chemise, nor the Wilton carpet from which all the odor of her semi-nudity had evaporated. Monsieur Gourd alone, when he went up-stairs toward seven o’clock to give his look round, sniffed at the walls; but what did not concern him, did not concern him; and as, on going down-stairs again, he saw two of the servants in the courtyard, Lisa and Julie, who were no doubt discussing the catastrophe, for they seemed deeply interested, he stared at them so fixedly that they at once separated. Then he went outside to make sure of the tranquillity of the street. It was calm. Only, the servants must already have been talking, for some of the neighbors’ wives stopped, tradespeople came to their shop doors, looking up in the air, examining and searching the different floors, in the gaping way in which the crowd scrutinizes houses where a crime has been committed. In the presence of the rich frontage, however, people held their tongues and politely passed on.
At half-past seven, Madame Juzeur appeared in a dressing-gown, to look after Louise, she said. Her eyes sparkled, and her hands were feverishly hot. She stopped Marie, who was going up with her milk, and endeavored to get her to talk; but she could draw nothing out of her, and did not even learn how the mother had received her guilty daughter. Then, under the pretense of waiting a minute for the postman, she entered the Gourds’ room, and ended by asking why Monsieur Octave did not come down; perhaps he was ill. The doorkeeper replied that he did not know; moreover, Monsieur Octave never came down before ten minutes past eight. At this moment, the other Madame Campardon, pale and erect, passed by; every one bowed to her. And Madame Juzeur, obliged to go up-stairs again, had the luck, on reaching the landing, to meet the architect just starting off and putting on his gloves. At first they both looked at each other in a dejected sort of way; then he shrugged his shoulders.