Madame Michot, taking advantage of Bess’s presence to look after the kitchen administration, left her to preside at the bureau. Bess, who was, as usual, very handsomely dressed, looked quite regal in Madame Michot’s great chair, on her improvised throne.
She found some of her acquaintances among those who came to pay their score,—more paid in cash than in the old days,—and each of the gentlemen passed Mademoiselle Luccheni a compliment, which Bess returned in kind. Many inquired how the merry war progressed between the Abbé d’Albret and herself; at which Bess showed all her rosy dimples and white teeth, and replied that she understood the Abbé was ailing,—going into a decline, fretted thereto by Mademoiselle Luccheni. The evening was far spent, when the door opened, and François Delaunay, looking as neat and as pious as usual, entered.
A chorus of welcome greeted him; gentlemen inquiring how the Duchess did; and was he out on parole; and what time was he obliged to report; and other remarks indicating his condition of servitude. To all this, François replied good-naturedly, and then turned to greet Bess.
“Sit you down there,” said Bess, pointing to a footstool which François placed on the step of the platform, bringing his head on a level with Bess’s waist, “and I’ll let you see, Mr. François,” she continued, “that I can look the duchess as well as that old Beaumanoir woman,—no offence meant. How is she?”
François shook his head dolefully.
“Very gay. Plays incessantly, and will have me to play and drink. She complained of me to-night that I had never been really drunk since I had lived in her house; and when I would have spent the evening quietly, with my books and my writing-book, she fairly drove me out of the house, to have some adventures and come back and tell her. So I came to the inn of Michot.”
“I am afraid,” said Bess, shaking her head solemnly, “by what she said about your never being drunk, that she suspects the game you have been practising on her, playing drunk.”
“I suspect she does, too. Oh,” cried François, in a burst of confidence, “if I were but free and independent, if I had but a thousand francs a year, I would lead the life I desire,—books and science, and, perhaps, take orders.”
“Poor François!” replied Bess, laughing. “I have known men affect pious to gull their patrons; but never saw I before a man who had to affect to be dissolute.”
“’Tis all due to your King Charles the Second. But for him, I could have lived in peace with my aunt; but the effort to make myself appear like that dissipated King, whom I detest and despise, is killing to me.” And then François went into the common room.