Giraud, who was beside me, whispered in my ear:
“The scenes of the lantern won’t be the most amusing ones. Look, there is Madame Bélan with monsieur le marquis over in the corner. It is very amusing. Poor Bélan! but he has just the face for that.”
Such jests no longer made me laugh. I looked about for my wife; I was confident that Monsieur Dulac had not left the salon, where he was playing écarté, and I was reassured.
The performance began. More people had arrived and we were so crowded that we could not move.
They showed us the sun and the moon, Pierrot and the devil, Cupid and the wild man. The gentleman who explained the pictures made endless speeches. The children shrieked for joy, and the ladies laughed heartily. To me it seemed very long and tedious; I could not stir from my place to go to my wife, and it was darker than ever.
Suddenly, in the very midst of his explanation, the gentleman pushed the lantern too far, so that it fell from the table to the floor; the lights were at once uncovered and the room was suddenly illuminated.
I instantly turned my eyes toward my wife. Monsieur Dulac was seated behind her, but one of her arms was hanging over her chair and her hand was in her neighbor’s.
I started up so suddenly to go to Eugénie that I trod upon Giraud’s feet, he was so close to me. He uttered a piercing shriek and declared that I had hurt him. I did not think of apologizing; I forced a passage to my wife’s side; her arm was no longer over the back of her chair and Monsieur Dulac was farther away.
I do not know how I looked at them, but Eugénie seemed perturbed and Monsieur Dulac’s face wore a most embarrassed expression.
“Take your shawl,” I said abruptly to my wife; “call your daughter and let us go.”