“And, Monsieur, you will find it necessary to go out to the Pigeon House at Melun to settle up Monsieur le Capitaine’s account without Madame finding it out?”
“I suppose so,” answered Monsieur Bouchard. “It is a nuisance; I never was at Melun in my life.”
“But that’s no reason why Monsieur never should go to Melun; and I’ve been told that the Pigeon House is a very gay place, with excellent wine. Suppose Monsieur makes an evening of it out there?”
“Pierre,” said Monsieur Bouchard, wheeling around on him, “are you trying to get me into all sorts of indiscretions in order to report me to the Rue Clarisse?”
“Lord, no, sir!” replied Pierre, with much readiness. “I am going to the Moulin Rouge myself to-night, and I’m sure if my wife knew it she would take not only my hair, but my scalp with it, off my head. The Moulin Rouge is a harmless enough place, but that’s what’s been the matter with our bringing up, Monsieur—we weren’t allowed to go to harmless places even. For my part, I mean to have my fling, even if my wife does find it out, and disciplines me. But there’s no reason for either one of us being found out if we’ll only agree to stand by each other.”
This was very satisfactory; in fact, everything seemed to be coming Monsieur Bouchard’s way except—the paste necklace. The thought of that, like the ghost at Lady Macbeth’s tea party, would not down. Monsieur Bouchard waited and lingered and dallied over his breakfast, and yet no parcel came from Madame Vernet. He did not care to remain at home all day waiting for it; no doubt it would come. It occurred to him that the best plan was to take Pierre completely into his confidence. It was true the rascal knew something of what had happened the night before, but Monsieur Bouchard felt it necessary, in Pierre’s new rôle of trusty henchman and prime minister, to confide all the particulars to him. However, this must be done in a manner consistent with the relations of master and man. So, when Pierre was handing him his coat, hat and gloves, preparatory to going out, Monsieur Bouchard remarked, quite casually, as if Pierre knew nothing of the happenings of the night before:
“By the way, I am expecting a little parcel to be sent me by Madame Vernet, the lady on the next floor, a very pretty little woman—a widow——”
“Trust Monsieur for finding out all the pretty little widows between here and the Rue Clarisse,” replied Pierre, with the impudent grin that had scarce left his face since he established himself in the Rue Bassano.
Now, this remark was not only grossly familiar but grotesquely untrue, so Monsieur Bouchard frowned and said, sternly:
“You forget yourself.”