And now in the house of the elder Camusot, before the very persons who had heard Mme. de Marville singing Frederic Brunner’s praises but a few days ago, that lady, to whom nobody ventured to speak on the topic, plunged courageously into explanations.
“Really, nowadays” (she said), “one could not be too careful if a marriage was in question, especially if one had to do with foreigners.”
“And why, madame?”
“What has happened to you?” asked Mme. Chiffreville.
“Do you not know about our adventure with that Brunner, who had the audacity to aspire to marry Cecile? His father was a German that kept a wine-shop, and his uncle is a dealer in rabbit-skins!”
“Is it possible? So clear-sighted as you are!...” murmured a lady.
“These adventurers are so cunning. But we found out everything through Berthier. His friend is a beggar that plays the flute. He is friendly with a person who lets furnished lodgings in the Rue du Mail and some tailor or other.... We found out that he had led a most disreputable life, and no amount of fortune would be enough for a scamp that has run through his mother’s property.”
“Why, Mlle. de Marville would have been wretched!” said Mme. Berthier.
“How did he come to your house?” asked old Mme. Lebas.
“It was M. Pons. Out of revenge, he introduced this fine gentleman to us, to make us ridiculous.... This Brunner (it is the same name as Fontaine in French)—this Brunner, that was made out to be such a grandee, has poor enough health, he is bald, and his teeth are bad. The first sight of him was enough for me; I distrusted him from the first.”