“And, Madame, I only moved into it to-day.”
“It is number nine, fourth floor.”
“No, Madame, it is number five, third floor.”
“Ah,” cried Madame Vernet. “I see. My apartment is directly over this, and corresponds with it exactly. I did not go up high enough, and I am not quite familiar with the surroundings. How absurd!” and she laughed, showing the prettiest teeth in the world.
“How delightful!” replied Monsieur Bouchard, gallantly.
“And how singular! This is the third time in three days we have met by accident.”
An uncomfortable recollection of Léontine’s speech about accidents of this sort occurring in cycles flashed through Monsieur Bouchard’s brain, but he dismissed the thought with energy. He rather relished accidents that brought about meetings with a woman as winning, as charming, as elegant as Madame Vernet; and then there was that deliciously intoxicating feeling of independence—no need to cut the interview short, no labored explanation to give Mademoiselle Céleste. Monsieur Bouchard was his own man now—for the first time, at fifty-four years of age. So he smiled benevolently, and said:
“I wish I might ask you to sit down, but at least you will grant me permission to call on you.”
“With pleasure,” replied Madame Vernet. “And since you won’t let me sit down—which, of course, wouldn’t be proper, and I wouldn’t commit the smallest impropriety for a million francs—at least let me walk about and look at your charming furnishings.”
Papa Bouchard made a heartfelt apology for the red-and-gold young ladies on the walls, who evidently shocked Madame Vernet extremely. He said he meant to take them down the next day. Madame Vernet replied with gentle severity that he ought to take them down that night. However, she went into raptures over “Kittens at Play” and “Socrates and His Pupils,” which gave Papa Bouchard a high idea of her intellectuality.