She questioned Adèle, who gave her a long account of how the day had passed; the duel which had not come off; what Monsieur Auguste had said, and what the Duveyriers and the Vabres had done. She listened to her, and seemed to live again, gobbling everything up, and asking for more bread. In all truth it was foolish of her to take the matter so much to heart when the others seemed to be already consoled!
“So you won’t tell me?” asked Hortense again.
“But, my darling,” answered Berthe, “you’re not married. I really can’t. It’s a quarrel I’ve had with Auguste. He came back, you know——”
And as she interrupted herself, her sister resumed, impatiently:
“Get along with you! What a fuss! Good heavens! at my age, I’m quite old enough to know!”
Then Berthe confessed herself, at first choosing her words, then letting out everything, talking of Octave and talking of Auguste. Hortense listened as she lay on her back in the dark, and merely uttered a few words to question her sister or to give an opinion: “What did he say to you then? And you, how did you feel? Well, that’s funny; I shouldn’t like that! Ah! really! so that’s the way!” Midnight, one o’clock, then two struck; still they went on with the story, their limbs little by little irritated by the sheets, and themselves gradually becoming drowsy.
“Oh! as for me, with Verdier, it will be very simple,” declared Hortense, abruptly. “I shall do just as he wishes.”
At the mention of Verdier’s name Berthe gave a movement of surprise. She thought the marriage was broken off, for the woman with whom he had been living for fifteen years past had just had a child, at the very moment that he intended leaving her.
“Do you, then, expect to marry him all the same?” asked she. “Well land why not? I was stupid enough to wait too long. But the child will die. It’s a girl, and all scrofulous.”
“Poor woman!” Berthe was unable to help exclaiming.