Madame Hédouin said that she liked them a good deal. But she was much too busy; her husband was constantly away, and she had everything to look after.
Octave, standing up behind her chair, searched with a side glance the little curly hairs, as black as ink, on the nape of her neck, and the snowy whiteness of her bosom, which—her dress being open very low—disappeared in a mass of lace. She ended by completely confusing him, as she sat there so calm, speaking but rarely and with a continuous smile on her handsome face; he had never before seen so superb a creature, even at Marseilles. Decidedly, it was worth trying, though it would be a long task.
“Having children robs women of their good looks so quickly!” said he in her ear, leaning over, feeling an absolute necessity to speak to her, and yet finding nothing else to say.
She slowly raised her large eyes, and then replied with the simple air with which she would give him an order at the warehouse.
“Oh! no, Monsieur Octave; with me it is not for that. One must have the time, that is all.”
But Madame Duveyrier intervened. She had merely greeted the young man with a slight bow, when Campardon had introduced him to her; and now she was examining him, and listening to him, without seeking to hide a sudden interest. When she heard him conversing with her friend, she could not help asking:
“Pray, excuse me, sir. What voice have you?”
He did not understand immediately; but he ended by saying that his was a tenor voice. Then, Clotilde became quite enthusiastic: a tenor voice, really! what a piece of luck, tenor voices were becoming so rare! For instance, for the “Blessing of the Daggers,” which they were going to sing by-and-by, she had never been able to find more than three tenors among her acquaintances, when at least five were required. And, suddenly excited, her eyes sparkling, she had to restrain herself from going at once to the piano to try his voice. He was obliged to promise to come one evening for the purpose. Trublot, who was behind him, kept nudging him with his elbow, ferociously enjoying himself in his impassibility.
“Ah! so you are in for it too!” murmured he, when she had moved away. “For myself, my dear fellow, she first of all thought I had a barytone voice; then, seeing that I did not get on all right, she tried me as a tenor; but as I went no better, she has decided to use me to-night as bass. I am one of the monks.”
But he had to leave Octave as Madame Duveyrier was just then calling him; they were about to sing the chorus, the great piece of the evening. There was quite a commotion. Some fifteen men, all amateurs, and all recruited among the guests of the house, painfully opened a passage for themselves through the groups of ladies, to form in front of the piano. They were constantly brought to a standstill, and asked to be excused, in voices drowned by the hum of conversations; whilst the fans were moved more rapidly in the increasing heat. At length, Madame Duveyrier counted them; they were all there, and she distributed them their parts, which she had copied out herself. Campardon took the part of Saint-Bris; a young auditor attached to the Council of State was intrusted with De Nevers’s few bars; then came eight nobles, four aldermen, and three monks, represented by barristers, clerks, and simple householders. She, who accompanied, had also reserved herself the part of Valentine, passionate cries which she uttered whilst striking chords; for she would have no lady amongst the gentlemen, the resigned troop of whom she directed with all the severity of a conductor of an orchestra.