“And I shall at last meet Major Fallière! I am so anxious to know him, the dear old thing!”
“Fallière won’t be at Melun to-night. He goes to Châlons on special duty to-day,” cried de Meneval, seeing a gleam of hope. “Why not wait until he comes back—some time next week?”
“Oh, it is quite useless waiting for an officer. He may be snatched up at any time and packed off to the ends of the earth. And go to the Pigeon House to-night I shall, I will, I must—” she punctuated this sentence by giving de Meneval three charming kisses—“and if it’s very improper, so much the better! I shall go to the Rue Clarisse and tell Aunt Céleste you forced me to go against my will, and so escape a scolding.”
“That’s all very well,” replied poor de Meneval, “but how will you get back to-night? I can’t leave—and I don’t know of anyone returning to Paris.”
“Don’t bother your head about that. You will put me on the train at Melun—my maid will meet me at the St. Lazare station. What could be simpler? No, no, no! I shall sup with you to-night at the Pigeon House, so be sure and meet me at the station at half-past eight o’clock—you have just time to make your train.” And she flew into his room, brought out his helmet and sword—for he was in uniform, being ready to report for duty—and kissing him affectionately, pushed him out of the door. De Meneval ran down the stairs and, jumping into a cab, drove rapidly off. He waved his hand to Léontine, watching him from the balcony.
Deceits and concealments were a new burden for Léontine to carry, and she spent a wretched day. Do what she would, she saw her diamond necklace at every turn. It haunted her as the dagger haunted the Scotch lady in the play. Still woebegone, she determined to go to see Aunt Céleste in the Rue Clarisse. What a dismal old street it was, anyhow! Dark and dull and utterly without life—no wonder Papa Bouchard had tired of it and had levanted into a gayer precinct. When she was ushered into Mademoiselle Bouchard’s dingy little drawing-room she found that good woman, Aunt Céleste, seated with one eye on her embroidery and the other on Élise, who was polishing up the already shining furniture. Aunt Céleste’s usually placid face was troubled, but it lighted up when she saw Léontine running in. Aunt Céleste was genuinely fond of the girl, albeit she was in chronic spasms over Léontine’s modern, and to poor Mademoiselle Céleste’s notion, outlandish ideas. Still, they really loved each other, and kissed affectionately.
“Well, Aunt Céleste, how do you stand Papa Bouchard’s absence?” asked Léontine, jokingly, but not unkindly.
Mademoiselle Bouchard wagged her head disconsolately. “It is not how I stand it. It is how he, poor, dear boy, stands it. Who will look after his dinner and see that he has simple and wholesome food? Who will look to his flannels? Who will see that he lays aside his books at ten o’clock and goes to bed, as he has always been accustomed?”
“It seems to me, Aunt Céleste, that as Papa Bouchard is fifty-four years of age he ought to know something about taking care of himself.”