“No, you idiot! Didn’t I tell you it belongs to Madame de Meneval—no—to Captain de Meneval—oh, the devil!”
Such expletives as this had been strictly forbidden in the Rue Clarisse, and in spite of his annoyance Monsieur Bouchard felt a sense of pleasure in being able to call on the devil in a casual and informal manner.
“I understand, Monsieur,” replied Pierre, with the wink that, like the grin, appeared to have become constitutional with him since his advent in the Rue Bassano. “The accidental Madame Vernet appears to have become accidentally possessed of a paste necklace that is not hers. Accidents will happen; but one accident that I am sure will not occur is the return of the necklace.”
“Damnation!” roared Monsieur Bouchard. He felt a delicious relish in saying this profane word. It was the first time in his life he had ever used it.
“Very well, Monsieur. Damnation or no damnation, I will keep the necklace for you—if I get it.”
Monsieur Bouchard dashed down the stairs faster than he had ever done in his life before. But on reaching the street and adopting a decorous pace, he thought, “Of course it’s nonsense to suppose that she won’t return it. The fact is, I have got to discipline that Pierre. He has altogether forgotten himself, and I shall have to teach him a few lessons.”
Meanwhile, in the gay little apartment in the Avenue de l’Impératrice, where the de Meneval ménage was situated, the necklace had become a haunting ghost as well as in the Rue Bassano.
As Léontine and her husband sat opposite each other at breakfast in the pretty little salle à manger, each felt like a criminal. It was a very pretty little salle à manger—just the sort of room for a young couple with a modest income, yet sufficient to live on. But there is not a young couple in existence who, knowing that their income is cut exactly in half while the other half is saved up for them, would be satisfied with their moiety. This, however, was bliss compared to the prospect of that dreary little cottage in the country to which Papa Bouchard had condemned them—or rather, to which they had condemned each other—for each thought secretly that but for those unlucky debts and the diamond necklace, Papa Bouchard would never have been so hard on them. The most painful part of it was, however, the necessity of concealment each felt toward the other. They had, up to this time, lived their married life with the perfect frankness of two devoted young persons who love and confide in each other—and this was what it had come to—bitterly thought de Meneval, who truly loved his pretty little wife—her diamonds practically put in pawn by him with that old curmudgeon, who had got thereby just the opportunity he wanted to exile them from Paris. All these thoughts chased through his mind as he looked at Léontine with a new and unpleasant conviction that he was a villain.
Léontine, for her part, felt a horrid heart-sickness when she remembered the paste necklace quietly reposing in the strong-box in her dressing-room, while Victor’s wedding gift was in Papa Bouchard’s strong-box in the Rue Bassano. And that dull little house in the country! It was she who had brought all this on Victor, and the thought filled her heart with remorseful tenderness toward her husband. She addressed him by the fondest names as she poured his coffee for him.