“Ah, that is inconvenient,” remarked M. Bourget, carelessly. “Never mind. Antoine will trust you. And I will give you a word of advice. Always take a little, a very little, absinthe with your coffee. It is more wholesome. What were we talking about? Oh, it was Poissy, was it not?”
But M. Leroux could endure no more.
“Excuse me, Monsieur Bourget, I am already late for an appointment. I must not lose time any longer, even over such an interesting subject.”
“Well, look in, and I will show you my suggestions for the north wing,” the ex-builder called after him. “Ah, ha, there is Fléchier; he might have an idea. Fléchier!”
The individual addressed, on the other side of the street, only quickened his steps, with a wave of his hand.
“Ah, my friend, it is you! Grieved that I can’t stop. Business. Another day. Au revoir.”
“What has come to the world, then, that every one is so confoundedly busy to-day?” grumbled M. Bourget. “I should have said I knew most of the affairs that are going on in Tours. I must go and inquire. The house is not so agreeable, now there is no one but old Fanchon to give one a word of welcome. However, Nathalie is a good girl, and deserves the good-fortune I have found for her. Madame Léon de Beaudrillart—or should it be Madame la baronne? No, certainly. There are baronesses in plenty, but not so many Beaudrillarts. Madame Léon de Beaudrillart, née Bourget. Ah, it is magnificent!”
So far—it was a month after the marriage—M. Bourget had abstained from going to Poissy. What withheld him is difficult to conjecture. Was it a certain shyness, strangely at variance with his brusque, sometimes brutal, bearing? This man, who had fought down opposition, and made himself terrible to his foes—this man, who cared little what he said himself, and laughed his great laugh when he heard what was said of him—was it possible that the bare idea of finding himself received on an equality at Poissy, which after all he had so largely benefited, made him tremble like any young girl presented to royalty? Whatever it was, and he gave no hint of his sensations to a living soul, the fact remained that while Mme. de Beaudrillart shivered at the idea of an invasion in which he would march round Poissy as if he were its purchaser, he had not yet so much as set foot within its walls. His daughter and Léon had come in two or three times to see him, and it had given him exquisite pleasure to perceive them driving along the street in the charming carriage which had been his wedding present to Nathalie. The first time that he saw them he happened to be standing at his own door, and the blood rushed to his face so violently that, all unused to the sensation, he imagined himself ill, and put his hand out to support himself. His greeting, however, was as brusque as ever, and neither Nathalie nor Léon had the smallest suspicion of his emotion. The second time he found fault with Léon for putting up the ponies at a small inn instead of at the principal hotel.
“Not suitable,” he grumbled.
“Decidedly, Nathalie, your father means you to spend your money,” said her husband, laughingly, as they drove home again, “yet he does not afford himself too much luxury.”