“What an idiot that Octave is!” said he.
At this appreciation of adultery there ensued another pause. Each of the three men was buried in his own reflections. The cab scarcely moved at all. It seemed to have been rolling for hours over a bridge, when Trublot, who was the first to emerge from his thoughts, ventured on making this judicious remark:
“This cab doesn’t get along very fast.”
But nothing could increase the horse’s pace. It was eleven o’clock when they reached the Rue d’Assas. And there they wasted nearly another quarter of an hour, for, in spite of Trublot’s boasts, he could not find the door. At first he allowed the driver to go along the street to the very end without stopping him; then he made him drive up and down three times over. And, on his precise indications, Auguste kept entering every tenth house; but the doorkeepers all answered that they knew no one of the name. At length a green-grocer pointed out the door to him. He went in with Bachelard, leaving Trublot in the cab.
It was the big rascal of a brother who admitted them. He had a cigarette stuck between his lips, and blew the smoke into their faces as he showed them into the drawing-room. When they asked for Monsieur Duveyrier, he stood looking at them in a jocular manner without answering. Then he disappeared, perhaps to fetch him. In the middle of the blue satin drawing-room, all luxuriously new, yet already stained with grease, one of the sisters, the youngest, was seated on the carpet scouring out a saucepan which she had brought from the kitchen; whilst the other, the eldest, was hammering with her clenched fists on a magnificent piano, the key of which she had just found. On seeing the gentlemen enter, they had both raised their heads; neither, however, left off her occupation, but continued on the contrary hammering and scouring more energetically than ever. Five minutes passed, yet no one came. The visitors, feeling almost deafened, stood looking at each, when some yells, issuing from a neighboring room, completely terrified them; it was the invalid aunt being washed.
At length an old woman, Madame Bocquet, Clarisse’s mother, passed her head through a partly opened door, not daring to show any more of her person, because of the filthy dress she had on.
“What do you gentlemen desire?” asked she.
“Why, Monsieur Duveyrier!” exclaimed the uncle, losing patience. “We have already told the servant. Let him know that Monsieur Auguste Vabre and Monsieur Narcisse Bachelard wish to see him.”
Madame Bocquet shut the door again. The eldest of the sisters was now mounted on the music stool, and was hammering with her elbows, whilst the youngest was scraping the saucepan with an iron fork, so as to get all she could out of it. Another five minutes passed by. Then, in the midst of the uproar, which did not seem to disturb her in the least, Clarisse appeared.
“Ah! it’s you!” said she to Bachelard, without even looking at Auguste.