It was only a quarter-past eleven, and I decided to see whether they had gone to bed. I went upstairs, knocked and mentioned my name; Ernest opened the door.
“Where on earth have you been?” he said, laughing; “it’s a month since we’ve seen you.”
“He has just come from his Eugénie,” said little Marguerite. “Oh! how happy we look! It seems that our love-affair is progressing finely!”
“Yes, very well indeed. Ah! I am the happiest of men to-night! She loves me, I am sure of it now; she prefers me to all the men who have made love to her; and yet I was much less attentive, much less agreeable than the others.”
“What difference does that make? One is always agreeable when one is in love.”
I told them all that had taken place that evening between Eugénie and me. They listened with interest, they understood me, for they loved each other dearly. When I had finished my story, I sprang up and danced about the room; I could not keep still.
“Look out!” said Marguerite; “you’ll smash everything. Why, don’t you see how fine it is here now, monsieur?”
I had not so much as looked about the room. In fact, there was some change: the wretched bed was replaced by a low bedstead of painted wood, but very neat and clean. There were curtains and a canopy above the bed. The chairs, which I remembered as almost all broken, had been replaced by six new ones; and a black walnut commode had replaced the little sideboard. Lastly, there was almost a good fire on the hearth.
“Do you see how fine it is?” said Marguerite; “my Ernest gave me all this. His play has succeeded. Oh, it is very pleasing indeed, his play is! When the author was called for and his name was given, I was so happy that I longed to shout: ‘It was my little man who did that!’—He has a great mind, has my little man!”
“Will you hold your tongue, Marguerite?”