“You know, my old fellow,” added she, “if you’ve come to tipple, you may as well get out at once. The old life’s done with. I now intend to be respected.”
“We haven’t called on your account,” replied Bachelard, recovering himself, used as he was to the lively receptions of such ladies. “We must speak to Duveyrier.”
Then Clarisse looked ar the other gentleman. She took him for a bailiff, knowing that Alphonse was already in a mess.
“Oh! after all, I don’t care,” said she. “You can take him and keep him if you like. It’s not so very pleasant to have to dress his pimples!”
She no longer even took the trouble to conceal her disgust, certain, moreover, that all her cruelties only attached him to her the more.
And opening a door, she added:
“Here! come along, as these gentlemen persist in seeing you.”
Duveyrier, who seemed to have been waiting behind the door, entered and shook their hands, trying to conjure up a smile. He no longer had the youthful air of bygone days, when he used to spend the evening at her rooms in the Rue de la Cerisaie; he looked overcome with weariness, he was mournful and much thinner, starting at every moment, as though he were uneasy about something behind him.
Clarisse remained to listen. Bachelard, who did not intend to speak before her, invited the counselor to lunch.
“Now, do accept, Monsieur Vabre wants you. Madame will be kind enough to excuse——”