De Meneval was in agony lest some of his friends among the ladies should recognize him, but they, being mostly decent and self-respecting women, though of a humble class, with true French politeness did not intrude themselves on his notice in any way. Nor was he anxious to begin a conversation with any of his brother officers, and carefully avoided noticing them beyond a bow, although many of them would have been glad of an introduction to his pretty young wife.
The dinner was outwardly very jolly, but the demon of remorse was at work within the breasts of both Victor and Léontine. Nevertheless, it did not affect their appetites, and François found he had a good deal to do. At last, however, coffee was served, and just as Léontine put down her cup a scream from the parrot resounded.
“Ah, there you are, Papa Bouchard! Up to mischief, eh, Papa Bouchard! Bad boy Bouchard!”
Now these were some of the phrases that Léontine herself, during her sojourn in the Rue Clarisse, had taught the parrot, much to her own and Papa Bouchard’s amusement. The wicked bird remembered them most inopportunely, for there was Papa himself strolling into the garden.
“Good heavens!” cried de Meneval. “We can’t afford to let Papa Bouchard see us out here. We should be sent into retirement to-morrow morning!” And obeying a mutual impulse, these two graceless creatures flew round the corner of the arbor, where they could see without being seen.
Monsieur Bouchard entered with an air of affected jauntiness which went very well with the extreme youthfulness of his attire. Apparently he had thrown all his old clothes to the winds, along with his discretion, when he decamped from the Rue Clarisse. He wore an extremely youthful suit of light gray, with a flaming necktie, a collar that nearly cut his ears off, and a watch chain that would have answered either for a watch or a dog. A huge red rose decorated his lapel, and his scanty hair, when he removed his hat, showed marks of the curling-iron.
At the first shriek from the parrot Papa Bouchard started apprehensively. The waiters—a shrewd and vexatious lot, who never fail to notice all the slips of elderly gentlemen—immediately jumped to the right conclusion, that the elderly gentleman in youthful attire was an old acquaintance of the newly acquired parrot. Monsieur Bouchard felt, rather than saw, a simultaneous snicker go round, and rightly concluding that the best thing to do was to ignore the wicked Pierrot, walked away from the arbor, and seating himself at a table some distance away, pulled out of his pocket the Journal des Débats and read it diligently. The parrot, however, delighted to find an old acquaintance among so many new faces, continued to call out, at intervals, various remarks to Papa Bouchard, such as “Does the old lady know you’re out?” “Oh, you are a gay bird, Papa Bouchard!” and always winding up, like a Greek chorus, with “Bad boy Bouchard!”
Presently a waiter approached and asked Monsieur Bouchard politely what he wished to be served with, and before he could ask for his usual drink, a little sugared water, the diabolical Pierrot screeched out, “An American cocktail!” which the bird pronounced “cockee-tailee.” Papa Bouchard scowled. This was very annoying.