Berthe at length appeared, and went hurriedly up to her mother.
“Ah, well! I have had a deal of trouble!” whispered she in her ear. “He would not go to bed, so I double-locked the door. But I am afraid he will break everything in the room.”
Madame Josserand violently tugged at her dress. Octave, who was close to them, had turned his head.
“My daughter, Berthe, Monsieur Mouret,” said she, in her most gracious manner, as she introduced them. “Monsieur Octave Mouret, my darling.”
And she looked at her daughter. The latter was well acquainted with this look, which was like an order to clear for action, and which recalled to her the lessons of the night before. She at once obeyed, with the complaisance and the indifference of a girl who no longer stops to examine the person she is to marry. She prettily recited her little part with the easy grace of a Parisian already weary of the world, and acquainted with every subject, and she talked enthusiastically of the South, where she had never been. Octave, used to the stiffness of provincial virgins, was delighted with this little woman’s cackle and her sociable manner.
Presently, Trublot, who had not been seen since dinner was over, entered stealthily from the dining-room; and Berthe, catching sight of him, asked thoughtlessly where he had been. He remained silent, at which she felt very confused; then, to put an end to the awkward pause which ensued, she introduced the two young men to each other. Her mother had not taken her eyes off her; she had assumed the attitude of a commander-in-chief, and directed the campaign from the easy-chair in which she had settled herself. When she judged that the first engagement had given all the result that could have been expected from it, she recalled her daughter with a sign, and said to her, in a low voice:
“Wait till the Vabre’s are here before commencing your music. And play loud.”
Octave, left alone with Trublot, began to engage him in conversation.
“A charming person.”
“Yes, not bad.”