“A little sugared water, if you please,” he replied to the waiter, and the bird, on hearing it, burst into a screech of hoarse laughter.
Monsieur Bouchard laid down his newspaper and looked about him with curiosity not unmixed with gratification. Everything seemed extremely jolly—these places were undoubtedly pleasant, and he was not so much surprised as he had been at de Meneval’s fondness for it. At that very moment de Meneval and Léontine were watching him and counting the chances of slipping out without being caught. But Papa Bouchard, quite unconscious of this, was becoming more and more interested in what was going on before him and around him. “At these places, though,” he was thinking, “one should have a companion—a person of the other sex—someone to help one enjoy—it’s dreary trying to be happy alone.” And as if in answer to his thought, he saw, entering the garden in both haste and embarrassment, the charming Madame Vernet.
Now, a curious thing happened—a psychologic mystery. All day long Monsieur Bouchard had been haunted and troubled by the thought of Madame Vernet and the paste necklace. She had not returned it. So much he knew from his first look at Pierre’s countenance when he had got home that afternoon. But the minute he saw the lady herself, in his pleased flutter and twitter of enjoyment, the necklace vanished from his consciousness; he remembered only that she was pretty, she was young, she was demure and she was easily alarmed. In fact, Madame Vernet appeared to be scared half to death at this very instant, and as soon as she caught sight of Monsieur Bouchard she fled toward him like a frightened bird.
“Oh, Monsieur Bouchard!” she said, panting and agitated, “how relieved I am to find you here! I had an appointment to meet my uncle and aunt here—you remember I told you I had an uncle and aunt living at Melun whom I often visited—and not seeing them outside I took it for granted they were inside, and so came in. I felt terribly embarrassed—I am so diffident, you know—at entering such a place alone, but I expected every moment to see them, and when I did not I thought I should have fainted from sheer terror—you can’t imagine what a timid little thing I am—and then my eyes fell on you, and I said to myself: ‘There is that dear, good, handsome Monsieur Bouchard—he is the very man to take care of a poor, terrified woman’—and so I ran to you.” Madame Vernet dropped on a chair at Monsieur Bouchard’s table.
What man with a soul as big as the head of a pin could refuse succor to a pretty woman under these circumstances! Not Papa Bouchard.
“My dear Madame Vernet,” he said, “pray compose yourself. I will take care of you until your uncle and aunt arrive.”
Madame Vernet looked around apprehensively.
“I don’t see my uncle and aunt,” she murmured—which was perfectly true—“and I am afraid, very much afraid, Monsieur Bouchard, that your youthful appearance really unfits you for the office of chaperon.”
Oh, how happy was Papa Bouchard at that! With liberty seemed to have come youth—with youth should come champagne. Papa Bouchard called the waiter back and changed his order from a glass of sugared water to a quart of extra dry Veuve Clicquot.