“Why, a big D, of course! Who ever spelt their name with a little one?” retorted Pipelet.
“Ah!...” Mme. Cléry smiled a smile of serene pity on the benighted ignoramus, and then observed coolly: “I suspected it! I'm not easy to deceive in that sort of things. I was not born yesterday. Good-morning, M. le Concierge.” She moved towards the door.
“Stop!” cried Pipelet, seizing his berette as if a ray of light had shot [pg 068] through his skull—“stop! Now that I think of it, it's a little d. I have not a doubt but it's a little d. I noticed it only yesterday on a letter that came for monsieur, and I said to myself: ‘Let us see!’ I said. ‘What a queer fancy for a man of distinction like M. le Professeur to spell his name with a little d!’ Là! if I didn't say those words to myself no later than yesterday!”
Mme. Cléry was dubious. Unluckily there was no letter in M. Dalibouze's box at that moment, which would have settled the point at issue, so she had nothing for it but to go home, and turn it in her mind what was to be done next. After all, it was a great responsibility on her. The old soul considered herself in the light of a protector to the two young women, one a cripple on the broad of her back, and the other a light-hearted creature who believed everything and everybody. It was her place to look after them as far as she could. That afternoon, when Mme. Cléry went to No. 13, after her fruitless expedition to the Rue Jean Beauvais, she took a letter in to Mme. de Chanoir. She had never seen, or, at any rate, never noticed, the writing before, but as she handed the envelope to her mistress it flashed upon her that it was from M. Dalibouze, and that it bore on the subject of her morning's peregrination.
She seized a feather-broom that hung by the fireplace, and began vigorously threatening the clock and the candlesticks, as an excuse for staying in the room, and watching Mme. de Chanoir in the looking-glass while she read the letter. The old woman was an irascible enemy to dust; they were used to see her at the most inopportune times pounce on the feather-broom and begin whipping about her to the right and left, so Mme. de Chanoir took no notice of this sudden castigation of the chimney-piece at four o'clock in the afternoon. She read her note, and then, tossing it into the basket beside her, resumed her tapestry as if nothing had occurred to divert her thoughts from roses and Berlin wool.
“Mme. la Générale, pardon and excuse,” said Mme. Cléry, deliberately hanging the feather-broom on its nail, and going up to the foot of the générale's sofa. “I have it on my mind to ask something of madame.”
“Ask it, my good Mme. Cléry.”
“Does Mme. la Générale think of marrying Mlle. Aline?”
Mme. de Chanoir opened her eyes, and stared for a moment in mild surprise at her charwoman, then a smile broke over her face, and she said:
“You are thinking that you would not like to come to me if I were alone?”