“Why Adèle, the servant up-stairs.”
Hearing there was something the matter with her, he had gone up quite paternally, on leaving the dinner-table. It must have been a very severe attack of cholerine; a good glass of mulled wine was what she ought to have, and she had not even a lump of sugar. Then, as he noticed that his friend smiled in an indifferent sort of way, he added:
“Hallo! I forgot you’re married, you joker! This sort of thing no longer interests you. I never thought of that when I found you with madame. Anything you like except that!”
They entered together. The ladies were just then speaking of their servants, and were taking such interest in the conversation, that they did not notice them at first. All were complacently approving Madame Duveyrier, who was trying to explain, in an embarrassed way, why she continued to keep Clémence and Hippolyte: he was rough, but she dressed her so well that one could not help shutting one’s eyes to other matters. Neither Valérie nor Berthe could succeed in securing a decent girl; they had given it up in despair, after trying every registry office, the good-for-nothing servants from which had done no more than pass through their kitchens. Madame Josserand violently abused Adèle, of whom she related some fresh abominable and stupid doings of extraordinary character; and yet she did not send her about her business. As for the other Madame Campardon, she was quite enthusiastic in her praises of Lisa: a pearl, not a thing to reproach her with; in short, one of those deserving domestics to whom one gives prizes.
“She is quite one of the family now,” said she. “Our little Angèle is attending some lectures at the Hôtel de Ville, and Lisa accompanies her. Oh! they might remain out together for days; we should not be in the least anxious.”
It was at this moment that the ladies caught sight of Octave. He was advancing to wish Clotilde good-evening. Berthe looked at him; then, without the least affectation, she resumed her conversation with Valérie, who had exchanged with him the affectionate glance of disinterested friendship. The others—Madame Josserand, Madame Dambreville—without throwing themselves at him, surveyed him with sympathetic interest.
“So here you are at last!” said Clotilde, who was most amiable. “I was beginning to tremble for the chorus.”
And, as Madame Mouret gently scolded her husband for being so late, he made some excuses.
“But, my dear, I was unable to come sooner. I am most sorry, madame. However, I am now entirely at your disposal.” Meanwhile, the ladies were anxiously watching the window recess into which Auguste had retired. They received a momentary fright when they beheld him turn round at the sound of Octave’s voice. His headache was no doubt worse; he had a restless look about the eyes, which seemed full of the darkness of the street. He at length appeared to make up his mind, and, returning to his former position beside his sister’s chair, he said.
“Send them away, or else we will leave.”