“May I ask, Monsieur, that you will not spread this unfortunate story abroad in Paris?”
“I shall have it printed in every newspaper in Paris to-morrow morning, and I shall myself write to Dr. Vignaud, giving him a detailed account of the affair.”
“Good heavens!”
“And if insanity ever develops in my family, it is Dr. Vignaud who shall treat every case—every case, do you hear?”
“Then, sir,” said Dr. Delcasse, angrily, “all I have to say is that I am not at all sure my first diagnosis was not correct, and you are indeed, already crazy—and I have the honor to bid you good-evening.”
“Go to the devil!”
Dr. Delcasse, slapping his hat down angrily on his head, marched indignantly out, and de Meneval, still furious at the treatment to which he had been subjected, poured out his injuries:
“And but for having been recognized by some of the waiters as I was being dragged away I should at this moment be an inmate of a lunatic asylum, sent there by the wiles of a shameless adventuress, brought to the Pigeon House by Monsieur Bouchard.” This was de Meneval’s exact language.
“Take care, sir; take care!” cried Papa Bouchard, in a voice trembling with wrath. He was not accustomed to being talked to in that manner. “You may repent of this language. Madame Vernet is a lady of means and respectability. I did not bring her out here. She came expecting to find here her uncle and aunt, who live in Melun. I invited her to sup in a public place, as any gentleman is authorized to do in the case of a widow old enough to take care of herself—and because your suspicions were excited by her having on a necklace like that you bought for your wife, you proceeded to make trouble. Well, it seems she turned the tables on you very cleverly, and no doubt, being a bashful little thing, she dreaded the sensation it would make and the notoriety which might follow, and—and so, naturally, has gone.” Then, turning to Léontine, Papa Bouchard played his trump card. “Haven’t you your diamond necklace safe at home, Léontine?”