Pierre then backed out of the door, wiping two imaginary tears from his eyes. Once outside with the door shut, this miscreant did a very strange thing. He stood on one leg, whirled around with the greatest agility for his years, and softly whispered, “Houp-là!”
That very day came the moving. The van arrived, and Monsieur Bouchard’s books, papers and clothes were put into it by Pierre, who seemed to be in the deepest dejection. Mademoiselle gave him minute and tearful directions about Monsieur Paul’s diet, exercise and clothing. He was to see that Monsieur Paul kept regular hours, and was to report in the Rue Clarisse the smallest infraction of the rules of living which might occur in the Rue Bassano; and Pierre promised with a fervor and glibness that would have excited the suspicions of anyone less kindly and simple-minded than good old Mademoiselle. He did indeed awaken a host of doubts in the mind of his faithful Élise, who had not been married for thirty years without finding out a few things about men. And when he wept at telling her good-bye for a single day, she told him not to be shedding any of those crocodile tears around her.
Pierre, mounted on the van that carried away Monsieur Bouchard’s belongings, drove off, looking as melancholy as he could; but as soon as he turned the corner he began whistling so merrily that the driver asked him if his uncle hadn’t died and left him some money.
When the Rue Bassano was reached Pierre jumped down and skipped up stairs with the agility of twenty instead of fifty. He was as charmed with Monsieur’s new apartment as Monsieur himself had been. It was so intensely modern. Light everywhere—all sorts of new-fashioned conveniences—nothing in the least like the dismal old Rue Clarisse. And the view from the windows—so very gay! And the noise—so delicious, so intoxicatingly interesting! The sound of rag time music came from the two music halls across the way. Pierre, dropping all pretence of work, was inspired to do the can-can, whistling and singing meanwhile. The open window proved so attractive that Pierre spent a good part of the time hanging out of it, and only by fits and starts got Monsieur Bouchard’s belongings in place. And the more he saw of the place, the more exuberant was his delight with it, and the more determined he was to stay there. The last tenant—the jolly young journalist named Marsac—had left, as Monsieur Bouchard had noted, some souvenirs on the walls in the shape of gaudy posters and brilliant chromos of ballet girls. These, Pierre might be expected to remove when he began to hang on the walls the severely classic pictures that constituted Monsieur Bouchard’s collection of art. But Pierre seemed to know by clairvoyance Monsieur Bouchard’s latent tastes. He hung “The Coliseum by Moonlight”—a very fine etching—immediately under a red-and-gold young lady who was making a quarter past six with her dainty, uplifted toe. “Socrates and His Pupils” were put where they could get an admirable view of another red-and-gold young lady who was making twelve o’clock meridian as nearly as a human being could. “Kittens at Play”—a great favorite of Mademoiselle’s—was side by side with a picture of Courier, who won the Grand Prix that year, and a very noble portrait of President Loubet was placed next a cut of a celebrated English prize fighter, stripped for the ring. The remainder of the things were neatly arranged; the concierge, who was to supply Monsieur Bouchard’s meals, was interviewed, and an appetizing dinner ordered. Then Pierre, taking possession of the evening newspaper and also of a very comfortable chair by the window, awaited Monsieur Bouchard’s arrival.
It was a charming evening in the middle of June, and still broad daylight at seven o’clock. But Pierre, presently lighting a lamp and drawing the shades, gave the apartment a homelike and inviting aspect.
Just as the clock struck seven Monsieur Bouchard’s step was heard on the stair. Seven o’clock had been Monsieur Bouchard’s hour of coming home since he was fifteen years old, and he had never varied from it three minutes in thirty-seven years. He entered the drawing-room with a new and jovial air, but when he saw Pierre his countenance turned as black as a thunder-cloud.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, curtly.
“I came, Monsieur, by Mademoiselle’s orders,” civilly replied Pierre.
“Mademoiselle’s orders” was still a phrase to conjure by with Monsieur Bouchard. When the yoke of forty years is thrown off there is still a feeling as if it were bearing on the neck. Monsieur Bouchard threw his gloves crossly on the table and asked for his dinner.
“It will be here in five minutes, Monsieur,” replied Pierre. “Will not Monsieur look about the apartment and see if I have arranged things to suit him? The pictures, for example?”