And just as Monsieur Bouchard had made up his mind to ask for the necklace she flitted out of the door.
Monsieur Bouchard sank, or rather fell, into a chair. His head was in a whirl. He felt as if the events of that day were beginning to be a little too much for him. Just at that moment Pierre appeared from no one could exactly say where.
“Come, now,” said that functionary, in a tone of what Monsieur Bouchard would have thought brazen familiarity the day before, “I know all about it, I saw the whole transaction; remember, Monsieur, we are pals now. She can’t get money on it any more than Madame de Meneval can, and she’ll be sure to turn up again. Oh, you’ll come out all right, Monsieur. Cheer up. We’ll live a merry life, and after all, it is something to be away from that dreary old hole in the Rue Clarisse. Just listen, if you please.”
Pierre ran to the window, threw it wide open, and the strains of rag time music from the music halls filled the room.
“Everything goes in rag time at this jolly place,” cried Pierre—and then that staid, sober and decorous valet of thirty years’ service, cut the pigeon wing, twirled around on one leg, with the other stuck stiffly out like a ballet dancer’s, and kissing his hand in the direction of Madame Vernet’s apartment, cried, “Oh, we’re a gay pair of boys! We mean to see life! And no peaching on each other!” And with ineffable impudence, he winked at Monsieur Bouchard.
Chapter II
MONSIEUR BOUCHARD waked next morning with a delicious sense of youth and irresponsibility. There was no one to demand an account of him for anything. As for Pierre, Monsieur Bouchard determined to treat his vagaries in a jocular manner—it was simply the honest fellow’s way of showing joy at his emancipation. And when Pierre appeared, to shave his master, both of them wore a cheerful air. It was their 14th of July.
Pierre, at the same time he brought the hot water, brought Monsieur Bouchard’s letters. What a comfort to read them without having to give an explanation of every one to Mademoiselle Céleste! Monsieur Bouchard actually enjoyed receiving his tailor’s bill for the half-year under those circumstances. As for Pierre, he went about whistling like a whole flock of blackbirds, and Monsieur Bouchard had not the heart or the inclination to stop him. The only fly in Monsieur Bouchard’s ointment was the unpleasant reflection that Madame Vernet still had the paste necklace, but he felt sure that she had discovered her inadvertence of the night before, and would return the thing during the day.
“I suppose,” said Pierre, who seemed to have quite taken the direction of Monsieur Bouchard’s affairs, “that Monsieur will be looking after the bills of Captain and Madame de Meneval to-day.”
“I certainly shall,” replied Monsieur Bouchard.