"And thief——"
"No, no; but that miserable man of mine pays the bill for all. And when you marry, dear Miss Somers, take my advice; keep him well in hand, but never let it come to a long sulk. Whatever it is, have it out with him at once and have done with it."
In the meantime, Madame Bontemps, all unsuspicious of what was coming, was sitting peacefully in the office, casting up the columns of the weekly bills with one part of her sane and practical mind, and gloating in memory over her powerful remarks of the morning in the garden with another; while with a third she threw out staccato commands and observations to M. Bontemps, who was placidly smoking a cigarette over his Petit Niçois on the sofa, when a tall, clean-shaven, respectable Briton, with a keen, unflinching eye, and the usual British air of holding a subject universe in fee, walked in and bid her good evening in excellent French.
"This is without doubt Madame Bontemps," he said, introducing himself as the husband of a lady staying in the house, a Mrs. Arthur Allonby, and handing her his card, on reading which all Madame's bristles rose, and she prepared herself for the battle she felt to be imminent and also pregnant with victory to her side. Politely, but sadly, she desired her guest to be seated in a chair handed him at a sign from her by M. Bontemps, who smiled pleasantly to himself, expecting to be agreeably diverted by the forthcoming combat.
But Mr. Allonby, declining the chair, much to Madame's regret, as she found it easier to heckle opponents sitting than standing, began to address her sternly but gently, more in sorrow than anger, and always with that air of surprised dignity and unabated command. He had been led to suppose, he said very politely, that Les Oliviers was an exceptionally well-managed and high-class hotel, else, as Madame might easily surmise, he would never have selected it for the temporary sojourn of his wife while waiting till he would be able to join her. What, then, was his astonishment on learning that Mrs. Allonby had actually been requested to leave the house? Such a thing was outrageous, unheard-of, and must be apologized for without delay.
"Now for the fun!" reflected Monsieur, languidly adjusting a fresh cigarette, while Madame promptly seized her chance of returning fire, and turning about with expansive gestures and fluent delivery, poured in a steady and powerful broadside calculated to silence the Englishman's guns and shatter his forces beyond recovery.
What Monsieur had observed concerning Les Oliviers was absolutely correct, she replied. The proceeding alluded to was undoubtedly unheard-of, unparalleled, without precedent in the annals of that house—to which only persons of absolutely irreproachable character and assured position were admitted. Madame was filled with the profoundest compassion for Monsieur; her bosom was torn for him; she regretted from the profoundest depths of her being the necessity of inflicting upon him an immeasurable pain. But she was woman; more than that, she asserted brokenly and with deep sobs, she was mother. One's children were one's life. What mother could view the silent, corroding anguish, could witness the perfidious betrayal of a child, a guileless, a trusting, an adored child, unmoved? What fiend in human shape could stand by in icy indifference and look upon the gradual, irreparable blighting of a cherished daughter's life, the slow destruction of her every hope, the corrosive agony perpetually gnawing at her breaking heart, the withering, in short, of the pure and maidenly flower of her youth, and raise no hand, utter no word, in her defence? Madame Bontemps was the unfortunate possessor neither of a bosom of adamant nor of a heart of granite; she possessed, on the contrary, those of a mother; with a sacred fury and a noble indignation she chased from her hearth the serpent whose envenomed tooth had poisoned the happiness of her child and ruined the tranquillity of a cheerful and affectionate family circle. That the serpent in question, whose wiles had been daily employed before her very eyes in beguiling the youthful and pardonably sensitive affections of M. Isidore from their lawful and pledged object, should be in effect the wife of Monsieur, was for him, she admitted, a circumstance of supreme misfortune and profoundly to be deplored, and upon which, from the depths of her woman's breast, she offered him condolences of the deepest and most sincere nature.
Here M. Bontemps, profoundly touched by his wife's eloquence, dashed his cigarette despairingly to the floor, threw out his arms with gestures of despair, and groaned aloud, while Madame sought relief in tears. "Ma fille, ma Geneviève," she wailed, wildly smiting her breast, "mon enfant!"
But the stolid Englishman, surveying the afflicted parents with that direct, undauntable soldier-look of his, appeared to be entirely unmoved and awaiting further remarks from Madame Bontemps; and as these were not after some seconds forthcoming, he ventured to represent to Madame with infinite courtesy that she appeared to be the victim of an absurd misapprehension, which, in a woman of her intellect and capacity, paralyzed him with amazement. She had possibly taken some exaggerated statements uttered in the course of a lover's quarrel literally. Madame's words almost pointed to some vague suspicion that his wife—"my little wife," he repeated, smiling—had perturbed the relations between those young people, such a very droll supposition. If—as Madame here hastened to assert—M. le Vicomte de Vieuxbois, whose father had been a friend of his own, had been observed to converse in an agitated manner with Mrs. Allonby, to whom, as to other pensionnaires, the Vicomte had obligingly given Italian lessons, what more natural—Mrs. Allonby was herself a mother, the wife of the Vicomte's father's friend; she was older than she appeared, while M. de Vieuxbois was younger—what more natural than for a young man, suffering from the apparent coldness and misunderstandings of his betrothed, and far from his own mother, to seek counsel and comfort of a lady by her age and experience eminently calculated to give them? As a simple matter of fact, he was aware of all that had occurred; he had been deeply interested in the course of the young man's love, which had met with unusual, but not unnatural, obstacles, triumphantly and happily surmounted, until this unfortunate, but truly absurd, little misunderstanding arose. Madame probably knew that English wives had no secrets from their husbands, so that for M. de Vieuxbois to confide in Mrs. Allonby the depth of his passion and the misfortune of the various obstacles to its fulfilment, was in effect to confide in himself. What a pity to let suspicions so absurd divide two young and loving hearts! Mademoiselle's ear had doubtless been abused by mischievous, misunderstood tittle-tattle. Girls were like that, he knew from experience, and, having had the good fortune to win the best and most charming of wives himself, it hurt him to think of M. de Vieuxbois missing such a blessing—merely because of a little misconception of his conduct—a misconception absolutely incredible in a person of Madame's sagacity and knowledge of the world. In his anxiety for the young people's happiness, he actually found himself forgetting the necessity for extracting an apology for an unwarrantable act of incivility to his wife, the necessity of which both Monsieur and Madame Bontemps would at once admit.
They did at once admit it, and with a celerity and sudden change of front that not only took Mr. Allonby's breath away, but also that of M. Isidore, who happened—no doubt by the merest chance—to be lounging outside the ever open office door, intently studying the Figaro, and who also happened to have dispatched Heinrich, the porter, on an errand, by the latter deemed trivial and unnecessary to the last degree.