Trublot slowly opened and closed his eyes. It was so. When one married a woman who was disobliging and disgusted with one’s little ailments, and who strummed on her piano to the point of making all the dogs of the neighbourhood ill, one had to go elsewhere and be made a fool of!
“Let us moralize marriage, gentlemen, let us moralize marriage,” repeated Duveyrier in his rigid way, with his inflamed face, where Octave now distinguished the foul blood of secret vices.
The gentlemen were being called into the dining-room. The Abbé Mauduit, left for a moment alone in the middle of the empty drawing-room, looked from a distance at the crush of guests. His fat shrewd face bore an expression of sadness. He who heard all those ladies, both old and young, at confession, knew them all in the flesh, the same as Doctor Juillerat, and he had had to end by merely watching over appearances, like a master of the ceremonies throwing the mantle of religion over the corruption of the middle classes, trembling at the certainty of a final downfall, the day when the canker would appear in all its hideousness. At times, in his ardent and sincere faith of a priest, his indignation would overcome him. But his smile returned; he took the cup of tea which Berthe came and offered him, and conversed a minute with her so as to cover, as it were, the scandal of the window, with his sacred character; and he again became the man of the world, resigned to merely insisting upon a decent behaviour from those sinners, who were escaping him, and who would have compromised providence.
“Well, these are fine goings-on!” murmured Octave, whose respect for the house had received another shock.
And seeing Madame Hédouin move towards the ante-room, he wished to reach there before her, and followed Trublot, who was also leaving. His intention was to see her home. She refused; it was scarcely midnight, and she lived so near. Then, a rose having fallen from the bouquet at her breast, he picked it up in spite and made a pretence of keeping it. The young woman’s beautiful eyebrows contracted; then, she said in her quiet way:
“Pray open the door for me, Monsieur Octave. Thank you.” When she had departed, the young man, who was rather confused, looked for Trublot. But Trublot had disappeared, the same as he had done at the Josserands’. This time also he must have slipped along the passage leading to the kitchen.
Octave, greatly put out, went off to his room, his rose in his hand. Upstairs, he beheld Marie leaning over the balustrade, at the place where he had left her; she had been listening for his footstep, and had hastened to see him come up. And when she had made him enter her room, she said:
“Jules has not yet come home. Did you enjoy yourself? Were there any pretty dresses?”
But she did not give him time to answer. She had caught sight of the rose, and was seized with a childish delight. “Is that flower for me? You have thought of me? Ah! how nice of you! how nice of you!”
And her eyes filled with tears, she became quite confused and very red. Then Octave, suddenly moved, kissed her tenderly.