The sorely afflicted family found some distraction in this quarrel.
It was another matter gone wrong; they never succeeded in anything. Fortunately, there was still the funeral to take advantage of to bring the husband and wife together.
The funeral was a pretty decent one, though it was not so grand as Monsieur Vabre’s. Moreover, it did not give rise to nearly the same excitement in the house and the neighborhood, for the deceased was not a landlord; he was merely a quiet-going body, whose demise did not even disturb Madame Juzeur’s slumbers.
Madame Josserand and her daughters had to be supported to their coach. Léon, assisted by uncle Bachelard, was most attentive, whilst Auguste followed behind in an embarrassed way. He got into another coach with Duveyrier and Théophile. Clotilde detained the Abbé Mauduit, who had not officiated, but who had gone to the cemetery, wishing to give the family a proof of his sympathy. The horses started on the homeward journey more gayly, and she at once asked the priest to return to the house with them, for she felt that the time was favorable. He consented.
The three mourning coaches silently drew up in the Rue de Choiseul with the relations. Théophile at once rejoined Valérie, who had remained behind to superintend a general cleaning, the warehouse being closed.
“You may pack up!” cried he, furiously. “They’re all at him. I bet he’ll end by begging her pardon.”
They all, indeed, felt a pressing necessity for putting an end to the unpleasantness. Misfortune should at least be good for something. Auguste, in the midst of them, understood very well what they wanted; and he was alone, without strength to resist, and filled with shame. The relations slowly walked in under the porch hung with black. No one spoke. On the stairs, the silence continued—a silence full of deep thought—whilst the crape skirts, soft and sad, ascended higher and higher. Auguste, seized with a final feeling of revolt, had taken the lead, with the intention of quickly shutting himself up in his own apartments; but, as he opened, the door, Clotilde and the priest, who had followed close behind, stopped him. Directly after them, Berthe, dressed in deep mourning, appeared on the landing, accompanied by her mother and her sister. They all three had red eyes; Madame Josserand, especially, was quite painful to behold.
“Come, my friend,” simply said the priest, overcome by tears.
And that was sufficient. Auguste gave in at once, seeing that it was better to make his peace at that honorable opportunity. His wife wept, and he wept also, as he stammered:
“Come in. We will try not to do it again.”