“Mon vieux,” he said, “this good Cartier is playing the part du bon Dieu. It is a part I should rather like to play myself; but I have never learnt how, I think I am too young for it!
“It does not matter, for I have always found there are others to whom the rôle comes more naturally.
“You will do very well to accompany Cartier to Russia; when you come back you will find many things different. A year is a very long time in the life of a beautiful woman of middle age; it requires an infinite amount of pains to hide it; whereas at your time of life it is less than nothing to the appearance; but the amount of experience that it contains—mon Dieu, that is colossal! I assure you, at your age I once lost my heart, the whole of it—and I had an immense amount at the time—twice in three weeks! It was a charming period; I nearly drowned myself; but as a matter of fact I took a little voyage into the country with a friend, and it came to quite the same thing in the end! Try it, Jean—try it—au revoir!”
Romain followed Jean out into the hall with his hands in his pockets, and his agreeable smile slightly deepened as he exclaimed: “After all, it is in my power to offer you something; should you care for any of those walking sticks in the stand, they look a little stouter than yours, pray take one—but avoid any that have initials.
“I don’t suppose Monsieur Flaubert will give you much trouble; should he wish more satisfaction than you intend to give him, you will of course call on me; but ces gens-là prefer the law. Look out your trains and pack your things before you pay your little visit! You leave your best respects for your aunt Marie, of course—doubtless they will be worth a thousand francs to her—au revoir!”
Jean stepped back and shook his uncle’s hand again; their eyes met and a light passed between them; they were of the same blood and at length they understood each other.
“Adieu,” said Jean simply, and he picked out the strongest stick in the hall, without initials, while Romain looked on smiling.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THERE was no meal that Flaubert enjoyed so much as his breakfast. It seemed to him to be the great opportunity of appearing as a grand seigneur; for, in his opinion, to take your breakfast in a blue boudoir leading from your bed room, attired in a flowered silk dressing-gown, sufficiently expressed every claim of ancient blood.
It was here that he received the younger secretary and dictated to him any part of his correspondence he could induce Jean to accept as the business of Torialli, and tried to impress that impatient youth with the belief that the remainder of his letters were the subdued tributes of every young and beautiful woman in Paris.