But he was going too far, they set him down as an original. It was, moreover, thanks to this reputation for originality, that he did not lose his connection. He continued, by resuming with Abbé Mauduit their eternal quarrel respecting the approaching downfall of the Church. Léon now sided with the priest: he talked of Providence, and, on Sundays, accompanied Madame Dambreville to nine o’clock mass.
Meanwhile, the guests continued to arrive, the drawing-room was becoming quite filled with ladies. Valérie and Berthe were exchanging little secrets, like two good friends. The other Madame Campardon, whom the architect had brought no doubt in place of poor Rose, who was already in bed up-stairs and reading Dickens, was giving Madame Josserand an economical recipe for washing clothes without soap; whilst Hortense, seated all by herself and expecting Verdier, did not take her eyes off the door. But suddenly Clotilde, while conversing with Madame Dambreville, rose up and held out her hands. Her friend, Madame Octave Mouret, had just entered the room. The marriage had taken place early in November, at the end of her mourning.
“And your husband?” asked the hostess. “He is not going to disappoint me, I hope?”
“No, no,” answered Caroline, with a smile. “He will be here directly; something detained him at the last moment.”
There was some whispering, glances full of curiosity were directed toward her, so calm and so lovely, ever the same, with the pleasant assurance of a woman who succeeds in everything she undertakes. Madame Josserand pressed her hand, as though she were delighted to see her again. Berthe and Valérie left off talking and examined her at their ease, studying her costume, a straw-color dress covered with lace. But, in the midst of this quiet forgetfulness of the past, Auguste, whom the political discussion had left quite cool, was giving signs of indignant amazement as he stood near the parlor door. What! his sister was going to receive the family of his wife’s former lover! And, in his marital rancor, there was a touch of the jealous anger of the tradesman ruined by a triumphant competition; for “The Ladies’ Paradise,” by extending its business and creating a special department for silk, had so drained his resources that he had been obliged to take a partner. He drew near, and, whilst every one was making much of Madame Mouret, he whispered to Clotilde:
“You know, I will never put up with it.”
“Put up with what?” asked she, greatly surprised.
“I do not mind the wife so much, she has not done me any harm. But if the husband comes, I shall take hold of Berthe by the arm, and leave the room in the presence of everybody.”
She looked at him, and then shrugged her shoulders. Caroline was her oldest friend, she was certainly not going to give up seeing her, just to satisfy his caprices. As though any one even recollected the matter. He would do far better not to rake up things forgotten by everybody but himself. And as, deeply affected, he looked to Berthe for support, expecting that she would get up and follow him at once, she calmed him with a frown; was he mad? did he wish to make himself more ridiculous than he had ever been before?
“But it is in order that I may not appear ridiculous!” replied he, in despair.