“My dear mother, Monsieur Pierquin has just come. If he stays to dinner we need some table-linen; you forgot to give it out this morning.”
Madame Claes drew from her pocket a bunch of small keys and gave them to the young girl, pointing to the mahogany closets which lined the ante-chamber as she said:
“My daughter, take a set of the Graindorge linen; it is on your right.”
“Since my dear Balthazar comes back to me, let the return be complete,” she said, re-entering her chamber with a soft and arch expression on her face. “My friend, go into your own room; do me the kindness to dress for dinner, Pierquin will be with us. Come, take off this ragged clothing; see those stains! Is it muratic or sulphuric acid which left these yellow edges to the holes? Make yourself young again,—I will send you Mulquinier as soon as I have changed my dress.”
Balthazar attempted to pass through the door of communication, forgetting that it was locked on his side. He went out through the anteroom.
“Marguerite, put the linen on a chair, and come and help me dress; I don’t want Martha,” said Madame Claes, calling her daughter.
Balthazar had caught Marguerite and turned her towards him with a joyous action, exclaiming: “Good-evening, my child; how pretty you are in your muslin gown and that pink sash!” Then he kissed her forehead and pressed her hand.
“Mamma, papa has kissed me!” cried Marguerite, running into her mother’s room. “He seems so joyous, so happy!”
“My child, your father is a great man; for three years he has toiled for the fame and fortune of his family: he thinks he has attained the object of his search. This day is a festival for us all.”
“My dear mamma,” replied Marguerite, “we shall not be alone in our joy, for the servants have been so grieved to see him unlike himself. Oh! put on another sash, this is faded.”