“It is not possible!” said he.
Then, Trublot gave his word of honour. He knew another lady in the same state.
“Besides,” resumed he, “it sometimes happens after a confinement that—”
And he began to whisper again. Octave, convinced, became quite sad. He who had fancied all sorts of things, who had imagined quite a romance, the architect occupied elsewhere and drawing him towards his wife to amuse her! In any case he now knew that she was well guarded. The young men pressed up against each other, in the excitement caused by these feminine secrets which they were stirring up, forgetting that they might be overheard.
Madame Juzeur was just then confiding to Madame Josser-and her impressions of Octave. She thought him very becoming, no doubt, but she preferred Monsieur Auguste Vabre The latter, standing up in a corner of the drawing-room, remained silent, in his insignificance and with his usual evening headache.
“What surprises me, dear madame, is that you have not thought of him for your Berthe. A young man set up in business, who is prudence itself. And he is in want of a wife, I know that he is desirous of getting married.”
Madame Josserand listened, surprised. She would never herself have thought of the linendraper. Madame Juzeur, however, insisted, for in her misfortune, she had the mania of working for the happiness of other women, which caused her to busy herself with everything relating to the tender passions of the house. She affirmed that Auguste never took his eyes off Berthe. In short, she invoked her experience of men: Monsieur Mouret would never let himself be caught, whilst that good Monsieur Vabre would be very easy and very advantageous. But Madame Josserand, weighing the latter with a glance, came decidedly to the conclusion that such a son-in-law would not be of much use in filling her drawing-room.
“My daughter detests him,” said she, “and I would never oppose the dictates of her heart.”
A tall thin young lady had just played a fantasia on the “Dame Blanche.” As uncle Bachelard had fallen asleep in the dining-room, Gueulin reappeared and imitated the nightingale on his flute. No one listened, however, for the story about Bonnaud had spread. Monsieur Josserand was quite upset, the fathers held up their arms, the mothers were stifling. What! Bonnaud’s son-in-law was a clown! Then who could one believe in now? and the parents, in their appetites for marriages, suffered regular nightmares, like so many distinguished convicts in evening dress. The fact was, that Bonnaud had been so delighted at the opportunity of getting rid of his daughter that he had not troubled much about references, in spite of his rigid prudence of an over-scrupulous general accountant.
“Mamma, the tea is served,” said Berthe, as she and Adèle opened the folding doors.