“Madame la Baronne was chilled by the cool air off the river,” replied Lousteau. “Bianchon advised her to put on a warm dress.”
Dinah turned as red as a poppy, and Madame Piedefer assumed a stern expression.
“Poor Bianchon! he is on the road to Paris. A noble soul!” said Lousteau.
“Oh, yes!” cried Madame de la Baudraye, “he is high-minded, full of delicate feeling——”
“We were in such good spirits when we set out,” said Lousteau; “now you are overdone, and you speak to me so bitterly—why? Are you not accustomed to being told how handsome and how clever you are? For my part, I say boldly, before Gatien, I give up Paris; I mean to stay at Sancerre and swell the number of your cavalieri serventi. I feel so young again in my native district; I have quite forgotten Paris and all its wickedness, and its bores, and its wearisome pleasures.—Yes, my life seems in a way purified.”
Dinah allowed Lousteau to talk without even looking at him; but at last there was a moment when this serpent’s rhodomontade was really so inspired by the effort he made to affect passion in phrases and ideas of which the meaning, though hidden from Gatien, found a loud response in Dinah’s heart, that she raised her eyes to his. This look seemed to crown Lousteau’s joy; his wit flowed more freely, and at last he made Madame de la Baudraye laugh. When, under circumstances which so seriously compromise her pride, a woman has been made to laugh, she is finally committed.
As they drove in by the spacious graveled forecourt, with its lawn in the middle, and the large vases filled with flowers which so well set off the facade of Anzy, the journalist was saying:
“When women love, they forgive everything, even our crimes; when they do not love, they cannot forgive anything—not even our virtues.—Do you forgive me,” he added in Madame de la Baudraye’s ear, and pressing her arm to his heart with tender emphasis. And Dinah could not help smiling.
All through dinner, and for the rest of the evening, Etienne was in the most delightful spirits, inexhaustibly cheerful; but while thus giving vent to his intoxication, he now and then fell into the dreamy abstraction of a man who seems rapt in his own happiness.
After coffee had been served, Madame de la Baudraye and her mother left the men to wander about the gardens. Monsieur Gravier then remarked to Monsieur de Clagny: