“Think first of bringing her up as we brought you up,” said Madame Vuillaume, severely. “I certainly do not condemn music, it develops one’s feelings. But, above all, watch over your daughter, keep every foul breath from her, strive that she may preserve her innocence.”
She started off again, giving even more weight to religion, settling the number of times to go to confess each month, naming the masses that it was absolutely necessary to attend, all from the point of view of propriety. Then Octave, unable to bear any more of it, talked of an appointment which obliged him to go out. He had a singing in his ears, he felt that this conversation would continue in a like manner until the evening. And he hastened away, leaving the Vuillaumes and the Pichons telling one another, around the same cups of coffee slowly emptied, what they told each other every Sunday. As he was bowing a last time, Marie, suddenly and without any reason, became scarlet.
Ever since that afternoon, Octave hastened past the Pichons’ door whenever he heard the slow tones of Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume on a Sunday. Moreover, he was entirely absorbed in his conquest of Valérie. In spite of the fiery glances of which he thought himself the object, she maintained an inexplicable reserve; and in that he fancied he saw the play of a coquette. He even met her one day, as though by chance, in the Tuileries gardens, when she quietly began to talk of a storm of the day before; which finally convinced him that she was devilish smart. And he was constantly on the staircase, watching for an opportunity of entering her apartments, decided if necessary upon being positively rude.
Now, every time that he passed her, Marie smiled and blushed. They exchanged the greetings of good neighbours. One morning, at lunch-time, as he brought her up a letter, which Monsieur Gourd had given him, to avoid having to go up the four flights of stairs himself, he found her in a sad way: she had seated Lilitte in her chemise on the round table, and was trying to dress her again.
“What is the matter?” asked the young man.
“Why, this child!” replied she. “I foolishly took her things off, because she was complaining. And now I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do!”
He looked at her in surprise. She was turning a skirt over and over, looking for the hooks. Then, she added:
“You see, her father always helps me to dress her in the morning before he goes out. I can never manage it by myself. It bothers me, it annoys me.”
The child, meanwhile, tired of being in her chemise and frightened by the sight of Octave, was struggling and tumbling about on the table.
“Take care!” cried he, “she will fall.”