Nathalie drove in for him one morning, in order to bring him out for the second breakfast, and though she was glad, it must be owned she rather dreaded the time they would spend together, lest he should ask questions which she might have difficulty in parrying. She need not have feared. M. Bourget rode on the crest of exultation. He sat upright in the carriage, looking round him, at Nathalie, at the pretty pair of grey ponies, at the rug laid across his knees, with pride like that of a child’s. Every now and then he broke off what he was saying to remark in a tone of profound satisfaction, “Ah, ha, this goes well! This is something like!” To please him she called at one or two of the principal shops, and, drawn up there, when his acquaintances passed, he saluted them with the air of an emperor. All the way out to the château he plied her with questions about Poissy, more than once mentioning facts in its history which it displeased him to find she did not know.
“I thought you had had a proper education—certainly it cost me enough,” he grumbled; “and here you don’t even know what has happened in your own family.”
“No, it is disgraceful!” she agreed, laughing. “I must set to work at once. There are sure to be books about it in the library. But, I assure you, father, I try to keep up a habit of reading.”
“Ah, well, that’s all very well, that’s as your husband pleases; but certainly you’re no business to be ignorant about what so nearly concerns you. I tell you what, Nathalie, it’s the way of all others to vex madame. A fine woman, that! She looks a De Beaudrillart to her fingers’ ends.”
The meeting and the breakfast passed off fairly. Léon was there, and his good-humoured charm of manner succeeded in warding off one or two dangerous subjects. Claire studied M. Bourget as if he were a specimen of some strange species, with scarcely-veiled impertinences, which set his daughter’s cheeks burning. Félicie, on the other hand, sat mute, her eyes on her plate. M. Bourget, who had for some time regarded her in silence, at last touched Mme. de Beaudrillart’s arm.
“The poor young lady!” he said, sympathetically. “How long has it been so with her?”
“How?” demanded Mme. de Beaudrillart, amazed.
“That she has lost her hearing? I see she has cotton-wool in her ears. I once tried it myself, but I don’t like it; it heats the ear. Can she talk on her fingers?”
“Félicie!” cried her mother, sharply. Claire interposed.
“It’s a curious kind of intermittent deafness, monsieur, which only seizes her at times. By-and-by, probably, it will have departed as quickly as it came, but I am afraid you must resign yourself to her being stone-deaf while you are here.”