Chapter Twenty Three.
M. Georges to the Rescue.
Nathalie had written a hasty line to her father before leaving Poissy. He received it with an outbreak of temper, such as of late had become frequent with him. He had almost given up going to the café, or frequenting the streets; mostly he sat in his own room, gloomy, unapproachable. His appetite was unaffected, but to Fanchon’s mortification he was indifferent what he ate, and his favourite dish of cold beef en vinaigrette, however carefully prepared, failed to elicit so much as a grunt of satisfaction. His fellow-townsmen found his conduct inexplicable, not a word of Poissy crossing his lips; and as for the photographer’s window, he would have walked a mile to avoid passing it. One or two of his intimates declared that they breathed more freely; but, on the whole, Tours had been proud of his indomitable energy, his weaknesses, his blunt manners, and his great fortune, and regarded his depression with uneasiness.
“For at his age, when a man suddenly loses interest in what he most cares about, it is a bad sign,” said Dr Mathorin, taking off his hat, and rubbing his bald head with a large coloured handkerchief. He was walking across the long bridge with M. Georges. “Poor old fellow!”
“He has not called you in!”
“Not he. But if this talk of making him mayor comes to anything, I’ll go and sound him on the matter, and perhaps get a chance of a word, and of having my head snapped off.”
“Quite between ourselves,” remarked M. Georges, cautiously, “I understand that the opposition is led by Leroux.”
“Little wasp! Though with such a liver, one ought not to be hard on him, and by all that is yellow, here he comes! Good-day, Monsieur Leroux. Where are you off to?”
“Have you seen the paper? Have you heard the news?”
“Not we.”