Thus warned against famine, Madame Chantal inspects the remains, and takes notes in a note-book. Then, when she has written a great many figures, she plunges first into long calculations, then into long discussions with Mademoiselle Perle. The upshot of it is, however, that they come to an agreement and settle upon the quantities of each article that they will provide for a quarter, sugar, rice, prunes, coffee, preserves, tins of green peas, of haricot beans, of lobster, salt and smoked fish, and so on, and so on.
This done, they fix the day for their shopping, and set out in a cab, a cab with a rail, to a biggish grocer, whose shop is across the bridges, in the new districts.
Madame Chantal and Mademoiselle Perle make this expedition in company, mysteriously, and come home at dinner-time quite exhausted, though still excited, and shaken up in the cab, the top of which is covered with parcels and bags, like a removal van.
For the Chantals all Paris on the other side of the Seine is the new districts, districts inhabited by a strange population, noisy, not too honest, that passes its days in dissipation, its nights in feasting, and makes ducks and drakes of its money. Nevertheless the young ladies are now and again taken to the theatre, the Opéra-Comique or the Théâtre Français, when the piece is approved by the newspaper that M. Chantal reads.
The young ladies are now nineteen and seventeen years old; they are two pretty girls, tall and fresh, very well brought up, too well brought up, so well brought up that they pass unnoticed like two pretty dolls. It would never enter my head to pay attentions or to pay court to Mesdemoiselles Chantal: one scarcely dares to speak of them, they seem so immaculate, and as for bowing to them, one almost fears he is taking a liberty.
As for their father, he is a charming man, very well informed, very frank, very cordial, but whose one desire is repose and peace and quietness, and who is largely responsible for thus mummifying his family in order to live as he desires in stagnant immobility. He reads a great deal, is fond of conversation, is easily touched. The absence of all contact, elbowing and collisions has made him very sensitive and thin-skinned. The least thing excites him, agitates him, and hurts him.
Yet the Chantals do have some acquaintances, but restricted acquaintances, carefully selected in their neighbourhood. They also exchange two or three annual visits with some relatives who live at a distance.
As for me, I dine with them on the 15th of August and on Twelfth-night. The latter is part of my duty, like a Catholic’s Easter communion.
On the 15th of August some friends are invited, but on Twelfth-night I am the only guest.