“M. le Hourteulx next,” said young Simare. “Our millionaire is going to sing for you, madame, for, you know, he has been smitten with a passion since he saw you in church; a passion shared, of course, by his enemy Beaufrelant, for the two men always form the same wishes, so as to have the pleasure of thwarting each other. It’s a long-standing hatred: le Hourteulx was married once; and it seems that Beaufrelant....”
Simare bent over towards Gilberte and whispered a few words in her ear.
Young Lartiste, who owed his fame as a great actor to his name and to his name alone, was reserved for the end.
“No one recites like young Lartiste,” people said at Domfront.
And, from the first words that he spoke, everybody watched Gilberte, to enjoy her amazement. Unfortunately, Simare was continuing his more or less decorous reflexions; and Gilberte, although not always catching his exact meaning, felt so uncomfortable that she did not listen to young Lartiste at all and forgot to applaud at the striking passages, an omission that was put down to her bad taste.
“Mme. de la Vaudraye is furious,” said Simare. “Her son’s gone. And I expect she jolly well lectured him about making himself agreeable to you. By Jove, when you’re a mother, you have to think of your son’s future. But Guillaume making himself agreeable is a sight that was never yet seen! Besides, he looks down upon us too much to remain in the drawing-room. Just fancy, a writer like him!... Oh, I say, madame, look at the eyes Beaufrelant’s making at you! Beaufrelant is the Don Juan of Domfront. No one can resist him. They even say ... but I don’t know if I ought.... Pooh, you have a fan ... if you want to blush....”
And he again leant over towards Gilberte.
She rose from her seat at the first words. Mme. de la Vaudraye came running up to her:
“I am sure that that scapegrace of a Simare is saying all sorts of things that he shouldn’t.”
She drew her aside: