Théophraste grew terribly angry. He threw himself at his wife, and threatened to strike her. “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to be called a child since the death of Jeanneton-Venes. I am no child.”
Marceline swore that she would never do it again, and in the depths of her soul regretted the unlucky moment which had given her husband proprietorship of a document which had brought into the household such fears and such follies. She knew neither Marie Antoinette, nor Jeanneton-Venes, although he continually referred to them. He had a familiar way of expressing himself about these women which made her uneasy, and finally the unexpected sentences, spoken by Théophraste, and his actions, made her dread the incomprehensible Théophraste of two hundred years ago. It made her long for the former Théophraste, so kind, so easy to understand. Then she gave herself up to bitter reflections upon the theory of reincarnation.
Théophraste finished dressing, and then announcing that he would not breakfast at home, said that he had a rendezvous with his friend Va-de-Bon Cour, at the corner of the Rue Mazarin and Rue Guinegaud, to do a good turn for M. de Francouse, but as that rendezvous was after breakfast, he intended enjoying the air in the Moulin de Chopinette.
“You will leave my green umbrella here,” he said, “and I will take my black feather.” Then, putting the final touches to his cravat, he went out. On the landing he met Signor Petito, the Italian professor, who was also going downstairs. Signor Petito bowed very low, complained of the state of the weather, and complimented Théophraste on his appearance.
Théophraste answered in a less amiable tone, as he was not desiring the Signor’s company, and he demanded of him if Madame Petito could not be induced to learn another air on the piano than “Carnival de Venice.” But Signor Petito replied, smiling, that she was already studying “Love’s Destiny,” but in future she would study only the pieces which would please M. Longuet. He then asked, “Which way are you going?”
“For a turn in the Moulin de Chopinette; but the weather is too bad, so I will have to go down to the Porcherons.”
“To the Porcherons?” Signor Petito was going to ask, but he changed his mind. “Where is the Porcherons?” he asked. “I will go, too.”
“Aha, indeed!” said M. Longuet, glancing curiously at Signor Petito. “You too will go to the Porcherons?”
“Go there or somewhere else,” said Signor Petito, pleasantly, and he followed Théophraste.
At the end of a short silence Signor Petito ventured to ask, “Where are your treasures, M. Longuet?”