“‘And then,’ says Mame Droguet, ‘he’s got a friend who looks like a regular good-for-nothing; it’s the same fellow who had the face to knock at my door very late one night, to ask if we had seen his friend Edmond Didier; and with such a sly, impertinent air! humming his tra la la!’
“‘Oh! what do such people amount to anyway!’ says La Remplumé; ‘this gives me a very poor opinion of the women in the Courtivaux house.’
“‘But that ain’t all,’ says La Droguet; ‘guess who we saw walking home with ‘em the other night—at quite a late hour?’
“‘The two young men from Paris?’
“‘No. Oh! they’ve made other acquaintances here. They came home arm-in-arm with Monsieur Paul and his dog!’
“‘Is it possible?’
“‘Did they have the dog’s arm too?’
“‘I didn’t say they had the dog’s arm! I said the dog was in the party. And it was very lately, the night of the storm—don’t you remember?’
“‘Perfectly! I’m afraid of the thunder, and I stuffed my head in a butter crock so as not to see the flashes! I put it in so far that I couldn’t get it out again, and I says to my husband: “Break the crock, Jarnouillard, I can’t move my head;” and he replied, as calmly as you please: “That would be a pity; it’s almost new!” So I was obliged to break it myself by banging my head against a wall.’
“‘Never mind about your crock!’ says Mame Droguet impatiently; ‘we’re talking about these newcomers. How does it happen that after living in this part of the country such a short time, they’re already on intimate terms with the owner of the Tower—that disgusting man, that ogre, who won’t speak to anybody? It seems to me more than extraordinary.’