“What is the reason of that?” asked Lucien politely.
“I don’t know,” answered M. de Bargeton, relapsing into immobility.
“You have not cared to find out,” Lucien began again; “any one who could make an observation could discover the cause.”
“Ah!” said M. de Bargeton, “final causes! Eh! eh!...”
The conversation came to a dead stop; Lucien racked his brains to resuscitate it.
“Mme. de Bargeton is dressing, no doubt,” he began, shuddering at the silliness of the question.
“Yes, she is dressing,” her husband naturally answered.
Lucien looked up at the ceiling and vainly tried to think of something else to say. As his eyes wandered over the gray painted joists and the spaces of plaster between, he saw, not without qualms, that the little chandelier with the old-fashioned cut-glass pendants had been stripped of its gauze covering and filled with wax candles. All the covers had been removed from the furniture, and the faded flowered silk damask had come to light. These preparations meant something extraordinary. The poet looked at his boots, and misgivings about his costume arose in his mind. Grown stupid with dismay, he turned and fixed his eyes on a Japanese jar standing on a begarlanded console table of the time of Louis Quinze; then, recollecting that he must conciliate Mme. de Bargeton’s husband, he tried to find out if the good gentleman had a hobby of any sort in which he might be humored.
“You seldom leave the city, monsieur?” he began, returning to M. de Bargeton.
“Very seldom.”