“What girl?” exclaimed Octave, forgetting himself. “What! you think I am going to let myself be hooked’ Never! My dear fellow, we don’t marry at Marseilles!” Madame Josserand had drawn near. The words came upon her like a stab in the heart. Another fruitless campaign, another evening party wasted! The blow was such, that she was obliged to lean against a chair, as she looked with despair at the now despoiled table, where all that remained was a burnt piece of the cake. She had given up counting her defeats, but this one should be the last; she took a frightful oath, swearing that she would no longer feed persons who came to see her solely to gorge. And, upset and exasperated, she glanced round the dining-room, seeking into what man’s arms she could throw her daughter, when she caught sight of Auguste resignedly standing against the wall and not having partaken of anything.
Just then, Berthe, with a smile on her face, was moving towards Octave, with a cup of tea in her hand. She was continuing the campaign, obedient to her mother’s wishes. But the latter caught her by the arm and called her a silly fool under her breath.
“Take that cup to Monsieur Vabre, who has been waiting for an hour past,” said she, graciously and very loud.
Then, whispering again in her daughter’s ear, and giving her another of her warlike looks, she added:
“Be amiable, or you will have me to deal with!”
Berthe, for a moment put out of countenance, soon recovered herself. It often changed thus three times in an evening. She carried the cup to Auguste, with the smile which she had commenced for Octave; she was amiable, talked of Lyons silks, and did the engaging young person who would look very well behind a counter. Auguste’s hands trembled a little, and he was very red, as he was suffering a good deal from his head that evening.
Out of politeness, a few persons returned and sat down for some moments in the drawing-room. Having fed, they were all going off. When they looked for Verdier, he had already taken his departure; and some young ladies, greatly put out, only carried away an indistinct view of his back. Campardon, without waiting for Octave, retired with the doctor, whom he detained on the landing, to ask him if there was really no more hope. During the tea, one of the lamps had gone out, emitting a stench of rancid oil, and the other lamp, the wick of which was all charred, lit up the room with so poor a light that the Vabres themselves rose to leave in spite of the attentions with which Madame Josserand overwhelmed them. Octave had preceded them into the ante-room, where he had a surprise: Trublot, who was looking for his hat, suddenly disappeared. He could only have gone off by the passage leading to the kitchen.
“Well! wherever has he got to? does he leave by the servants’ staircase?” murmured the young man.
But he did not seek to clear up the mystery. Valérie was there, looking for a lace neckerchief. The two brothers, Théophile and Auguste, were going downstairs, without troubling themselves about her. Octave, having found the neckerchief, handed it to her, with the air of admiration he put on when serving the pretty lady customers of “The Ladies’ Paradise.” She looked at him, and he felt certain that her eyes, on fixing themselves on his, had flashed forth flames.
“You are too kind, sir,” said she, simply.