“Come in.”
M. Bouchard’s hat, cape-greatcoat and umbrella lay on a chair where he had placed them on coming in. Without so much as saying, “By your leave,” de Meneval slung the greatcoat round him, clapped Papa Bouchard’s hat on his head, seized the umbrella in such a way as to hide his face, and with his own hat under his arm opened the door to the lobby and darted past Léontine, nearly knocking her down.
Léontine, wearing an evening gown, a long and beautiful white mantle, and a chiffon scarf over her head, entered, somewhat discomposed by her encounter.
“What a very rude man that was who pushed by me so suddenly!” she said, advancing. “Some of your tiresome clients, Papa Bouchard, and I order you not to have that creature here again.” And she ran forward and kissed Papa Bouchard on his bald head.
Now, it was plain that this pretty Léontine took liberties with her guardian, godfather and trustee, and also that Papa Bouchard liked these liberties. It was in vain that he tried to assume a stern air with Léontine. She pinched his ear when he scolded, drew caricatures of him when he frowned, and when at last he was forced to smile, as he always was, perched herself on the arm of his chair and declined to be evicted. And she was so very pretty! The French have a saying that the devil himself was handsome when he was young. Léontine de Meneval had more than the mere beauty of youth, of form, of color. She was the embodiment of graceful gaiety. She looked like one of those brilliant white butterflies whose lives are spent dancing in the sun. The great and glorious dowry of love, of youth, of beauty, of health, of happiness was hers. Her entering the room was like a breath of daffodils in spring. She was a most beguiling creature. It was a source of wonder and congratulation to Papa Bouchard that this charming girl did not succeed in bamboozling all of her own income out of him and all of his as well.
Having kissed him, pinched his ear, and otherwise agreeably maltreated her trustee, Léontine looked round the new apartment with dancing eyes.
“Well,” she cried, laughing, “I see how it is. You couldn’t stand the Rue Clarisse another day or hour. Did anybody ever tell you, Papa Bouchard, that you had a vein of—a vein of—what shall I call it?—a taste for the wine of life in you?”
“Nobody ever did,” replied Papa Bouchard, trying to be stern.
“Then I tell you so. And look at these pictures—oh, oh!”