At length, the same as on every Saturday, when midnight struck, the guests began to withdraw. Campardon was among the first to leave, with the other Madame Campardon. Léon and Madame Dambreville were not long in maritally following them. Verdier’s back had long ago disappeared, when Madame Josserand went off with Hortense, bullying her for what she called her romantic obstinacy. Uncle Bachelard, very drunk from the punch he had taken, detained Madame Juzeur a moment at the door, finding her advice full of experience quite refreshing. Trublot, who had stolen some sugar for Adèle, was making for the passage leading to the kitchen, when the presence of Berthe and Auguste in the anteroom embarrassed him, and he pretended to be looking for his hat.
But, just at this minute, Octave and his wife, escorted by Clotilde, also came out and asked for their wraps. There ensued a few seconds of embarrassment, The ante-room was not large, Berthe and Madame Mouret were pressed against each other, whilst Hippolyte was searching for their things. They both smiled. Then, when the door was opened, the two men, Octave and Auguste, brought face to face, did the polite, each stepping aside. At length, Berthe consented to pass out first, after an exchange of bows. And Valérie, who was leaving in her turn with Théophile, again looked at Octave in the affectionate way of a disinterested friend. He and she alone might have told each other everything.
“Good-bye,” repeated Clotilde graciously to the two families, before returning to the drawing-room.
Octave stopped short. He had just caught sight on the next floor of the partner, the neat little fair fellow, taking his departure like the rest, and whose hands Saturnin, who had just left Marie, was pressing in an outburst of savage tenderness, stuttering the while: “Friend—friend—friend—” A singular feeling of jealousy at first darted through him. Then he smiled. It was the past; and he again recalled his amours, all his campaign of Paris, the complacencies of that good little Pichon, the repulse he received from Valérie, of whom he preserved a pleasant recollection, his stupid connection with Berthe, which he regretted as pure waste of time. Now he had transacted his business, Paris was conquered; and he gallantly followed her whom in his heart he still styled Madame Hédouin, every now and then stooping to see that the train of her dress did not catch in the stair-rods.
The house had once more resumed its grand air of middle-class dignity. He fancied he could hear Marie’s distant and expiring ballad. Beneath the porch he met Jules coming in: Madame Vuillaume was at death’s door, and refused to see her daughter. Then, that was all, the doctor and the priest retired last and still arguing; Trublot had shyly gone up to Adèle to attend to her; and the deserted staircase slumbered in a heavy warmth with its chaste doors inclosing respectable alcoves. One o’clock was striking, when Monsieur Gourd, whom Madame Gourd was snugly awaiting in bed, turned out the gas. Then the whole house lapsed into silent darkness, as though annihilated by the decency of its sleep. Nothing remained, life resumed its level of indifference and stupidity.
On the following morning, Adèle dragged herself down to her kitchen, so as to allay suspicion. A thaw had set in during the night, and she opened the window, feeling stifled, when Hippolyte’s voice rose furiously from the depths of the narrow courtyard.
“You dirty hussies! Who has been emptying her slops out of the window again? Madame’s dress is quite spoilt!”
He had hung out one of Madame Duveyrier’s dresses given him to brush, and he found it all spattered with sour broth. Then, from the top to the bottom, the servants appeared at their windows and violently exculpated themselves. The sluice was open and a rush of the most abominable words flowed from the foul spot. In times of thaw, the walls were steeped with humidity, and quite a pestilence ascended from the obscure little courtyard, all the hidden corruptions of the different floors seeming to melt and ooze out by this common sewer of the house.
“It wasn’t me,” said Adèle, leaning out. “I’ve only just come.” Lisa abruptly raised her head.
“Hallo! so you’re on your legs again. Well, what was the matter? Is it true that you almost croaked?”