“Very well. To-morrow.”
“Mme. la Comtesse Popinot has done me the honor of asking me, cousin. She was so kind as to write—”
“The day after to-morrow then.”
“M. Brunner, a German, my first flute’s future partner, returns the compliment paid him to-day by the young couple—”
“You are such pleasant company that it is not surprising that people dispute for the honor of seeing you. Very well, next Sunday? Within a week, as we say at the courts?”
“On Sunday we are to dine with M. Graff, the flute’s father-in-law.”
“Very well, on Saturday. Between now and then you will have time to reassure a little girl who has shed tears already over her fault. God asks no more than repentance; you will not be more severe than the Eternal father with poor little Cecile?—”
Pons, thus reached on his weak side, again plunged into formulas more than polite, and went as far as the stairhead with the President.
An hour later the President’s servants arrived in a troop on poor Pons’ second floor. They behaved after the manner of their kind; they cringed and fawned; they wept. Madeleine took M. Pons aside and flung herself resolutely at his feet.
“It is all my fault; and monsieur knows quite well that I love him,” here she burst into tears. “It was vengeance boiling in my veins; monsieur ought to throw all the blame of the unhappy affair on that. We are all to lose our pensions.... Monsieur, I was mad, and I would not have the rest suffer for my fault.... I can see now well enough that fate did not make me for monsieur. I have come to my senses, I aimed too high, but I love you still, monsieur. These ten years I have thought of nothing but the happiness of making you happy and looking after things here. What a lot!... Oh! if monsieur but knew how much I love him! But monsieur must have seen it through all my mischief-making. If I were to die to-morrow, what would they find?—A will in your favor, monsieur.... Yes, monsieur, in my trunk under my best things.”