“How is the marriage getting on?” asked Monsieur Josserand, discreetly.
At first the mother replied in well-chosen phrases, on account of Hortense. Now, she was at the feet of her son, a young fellow who was sure to succeed; and she would even throw his name in the father’s face at times, saying that, thank goodness! he took after her, and would never leave his wife without a pair of shoes. She little by little warmed with her subject.
“In short, he’s had enough of it! It was all very well for a while, and did him no harm. But, if the aunt doesn’t give him the niece, good night! he’ll cut off all supplies. I think he is quite right.”
Hortense, out of decency, sipped her coffee, making a show of obliterating herself behind the cup; whilst Berthe, who for the future might hear anything, gave a slight pout of repugnance at her brother’s successes. The family were about to rise from table, and Monsieur Josserand, who was more cheerful and feeling much better, was talking of going to his office all the same, when Adèle brought in a card. The person was waiting in the drawingroom.
“What, it’s her! and at this hour of the morning!” exclaimed Madame Josserand. “And I who haven’t got my stays on! So much the worse! it’s time I gave her a piece of my mind!”
The visitor was Madame Dambreville. The father and his two daughters remained talking in the dining-room, whilst the mother directed her steps to the drawing-room. But she stopped at the door before opening it, and anxiously examined her old green silk dress, trying to button it up, picking off the threads gathered from the floors, and driving in her immense bosom with a tap.
“Excuse me, dear madame,” said the visitor, with a smile. “I was passing, so could not resist calling to see how you were.”
She was all laced up, and had her hair done in the most correct style, while she conversed in the easy way of an amiable woman who had just come up to wish a friend good-day. Only, her smile, trembled, and behind her society graces one could detect a frightful anguish, with which her whole frame quivered. She at first talked of all sorts of things, avoiding any mention of Léon’s name, but at length she took from her pocket a letter which she had just received from him.
“Oh! such a letter, such a letter,” murmured she, in an altered voice, half-broken with sobs. “Whatever is it he has to complain of, dear madame? He says he will never come to our house again!”
And her feverish hand held out the letter, which quite shook as she offered it to Madame Josserand. The latter read it coldly. It was a breaking off of the acquaintance in three lines of most cruel conciseness.