“But he will find out in the Rue Bassano, if I’m not mistaken,” said de Meneval, laughing suddenly.
Then there was a long pause, broken by Léontine’s throwing down her napkin and crying out:
“I have an inspiration! We are so dull and disheartened to-day that nothing but a supper at the Pigeon House will cheer us up. You will take me there to-night. Remember, you promised me.”
“Did I?” asked poor de Meneval. He was, in truth, afraid to show his face at the Pigeon House lest the head waiter should quietly tap him on the shoulder and ask him to step up to the bureau and pay the whole of the nineteen hundred francs. And what would become of that story he had told Léontine about never having set foot in the Pigeon House since his marriage? Only the week before, there had been a little supper—de Meneval’s recollection of it was rather cloudy—but he thought he remembered something about going to sleep on a bench, and waking up and finding an umbrella in his sword-belt instead of his sword. This scheme of Léontine’s was most unlucky.
“And I must and will go this very evening!” cried Léontine, jumping up and running around to her husband’s chair, where she proceeded to perch herself on the arm. “I know exactly how it can be done. I will take the eight o’clock train. You will meet me at the station. We will go to the Pigeon House, where you will secure a table in that charming terrace garden you have told me so much about. We will have a jolly little supper—and I’ll pay for the champagne. No—no!” putting her hands over de Meneval’s mouth. “And it will be such fun to watch the queer people passing in and out of the music hall!”
“Some of them,” said de Meneval, with the hope of frightening Léontine, “are very queer indeed.”
“Yes, yes, I know. You have often told me about the singers and dancers coming out there in their theatre clothes, and that’s just what I want to see. And as for any impropriety—haven’t I often heard you say that every one of those hard-working ballet girls is supporting her bedridden parents, or crippled husband, or something of the sort?”
“I did say that many of them are honest and hard-working.”
“I am sure of it! The mere fact that they work is enough. You know I have been studying sociology of late, and I know something about the working people.” Léontine, as she said this, had an uncomfortable twinge when she remembered Putzki and Louise.
Now, if anything in the world was calculated to make the bright June morning blacker than it was already to de Meneval, it was this sudden freak of Léontine’s to go out to the Pigeon House to supper. He fidgeted in his chair, and hummed and ha’d, but Léontine prattled on, talking about the amusement she should have.