"Madame Thierry—we will leave her where she is," said Marcel. "Nothing has been said to her about going, and she would delay us while dressing. Besides, I should prefer—if you are to be recognized in spite of all our precautions—that you should not be seen with a woman who has a grown-up son—of whom, I may say parenthetically, Uncle Antoine has been exceedingly jealous. Mine is only a little law-student in embryo, barely twelve years old; we will take him, and that will make our bourgeois and—patriarchal party complete."
They arrived at Marcel's house. He ran upstairs, leaving Julie alone in the tightly closed cab. He soon came down again with his wife and son. Madame Marcel Thierry was very much frightened; but, like a sensible woman, she made no apologies and in a very few moments felt entirely at ease with the amiable Julie, who, on her side, found her a pleasant and sensible companion. They left the cab just before they reached the line of people waiting to purchase tickets, walked to the theatre, and passed in without meeting any spying or inquisitive persons. They were ushered into a very dark box, where Madame Marcel and her little boy took their places in front to conceal Madame d'Estrelle and the solicitor. They enjoyed the tragedy extremely. Julie had never taken so much pleasure in a performance. She had a feeling of greater mental freedom, and that middle-class family interested her deeply. She watched them curiously as types entirely unfamiliar to her, and, although they were a little self-conscious in her presence, she surprised divers little loving tokens between the husband and wife and child, which went to her heart. At the interesting passages in the play, Madame Marcel would turn to her husband and say in an undertone:
"Can you see, my dear? my bonnet isn't in your way?"
"No, no, my girl; don't worry about me. Enjoy yourself all you can."
And the child applauded when he saw the pit applaud. He would clap his little hands with an air of importance, then suddenly throw himself on his mother and kiss her, which meant that he was enjoying himself immensely and that he thanked her for bringing him there.
All those simple ways of middle-class life, the familiar form of address, the endearing epithets, vulgar if you please, but sacred, aroused in Julie sometimes an inclination to laugh, sometimes a wave of emotion which brought tears to her eyes. Of course it would all be considered execrable form in her circle; it was the way that inferior people talked and acted. Marcel, when in Madame Estrelle's salon, readily adopted the manners and language of a man who is able to conform to what is considered proper in all ranks of society. In his own family he laid aside that conventional manner, and, without ever being vulgar, he resumed the familiar tone of happy domesticity. Thus Julie surprised him oblivious of his ceremonious manner and living for his own enjoyment a sweet, trustful, unconstrained life. She was distressed and delighted at the same time, and little by little she reached the point where she said to herself that those people were in the right, and that all husbands and wives ought to call each other thou, all children to throw their arms about their mothers' necks, and all spectators to be interested in the performance. In the circle in which she lived people always addressed one another as you, they had no simple phrases that came from the heart, they emasculated every noble sentiment. Refinement was the most essential point in speech, and dignity in endearments. The heart entered into them only in a subordinate capacity, and its effusions must be concealed beneath a certain frigid or absurdly symbolical gloss. Admiration for genius must never become enthusiasm. They enjoyed, or appreciated, their words were carefully confined within certain bounds. In short they made it a point not to display emotion on any subject, and with the perpetual little smile of the grace that accompanies noble birth, they became so charming that they ceased to be human.
Madame d'Estrelle realized all these things for the first time, and was deeply impressed by them. Little Juliot, who was so called to distinguish him from Master Julien, whose godson he was, had an interesting face. He was a funny little rascal, with a shrewd face, turned-up nose, keen eye and sly mouth, and had the artless and cunning self-possession of a schoolboy in vacation. Had he been disguised as a great nobleman, he would never have been confounded with the too pretty and too polished little men who are all covered with the same aristocratic varnish. Juliot had his coating of caste, to be sure, but of that peculiar shading which the bourgeoise mind does not seek to efface, because in that social stratum every one has to exist by his own exertions, and to make a place for himself with the aid of the means which are at his command. Thus the child had the biting wit, combined with a certain innocent curiosity, which denoted the freshly ground Parisian, inquisitive and loquacious, credulous and shrewd all at once. In order not to expose Madame d'Estrelle's name to the possible consequences of his chatter in the office, he had been told that she was a client from the country newly arrived in Paris, who had never been to the theatre before; and, as Julie enjoyed questioning him, he did the honors of the capital city and the stage, between the acts. He pointed out the king's box to her, and the pit and the chandelier; he even explained the play and the relative importance of all the characters.
"You are going to see a beautiful play," he informed her before the curtain rose. "Perhaps you won't understand it very well, because it's in poetry. I have read it with my godfather Julien, and he explained it all to me just as if it was in prose. When you don't understand, mademoiselle, you must ask me."
"You chatter like a magpie," said his mother. "Don't you suppose madame knows Corneille better than you do?"
"Oh! perhaps she does; but I don't believe she knows as much as my godfather!"