“For one night. We are going to Aix. It is the first night of ‘La Vie de Bohème.’ But theatres don’t interest you.”
Sincere as ever, Madame Guibert replied: “I never went to one in my life. To tell you frankly, I do not regret it.”
Although she spoke in low tones, there were two girls in light dresses who could hear her, and one of them, a bold-looking brunette, burst out laughing. But perhaps their fun was at the expense of a lieutenant of dragoons, who was speaking to them. Paule looked at her contemptuously from head to foot, her dark eyes flashing like a swift lightning streak.
“Why are you standing?” Jean went on. The old lady chose a seat beside a vacant armchair in a dark corner, as the humble and timid are wont to do.
“No, take the armchair, Mother,” said Paule rather brusquely. She had just exchanged bows—stiff on her part, cordial on the other’s—with the other of the two young girls, who instead of laughing had blushed.
After a few more words the young man left and rejoined his party. Paule looked after him and heard him say to Madame Dulaurens:
“Yes, that is Madame Guibert. She is waiting for her son, who is returning from Madagascar.”
“Which son? She has so many.”
“Why, the officer—Marcel.”
“What is his rank?”