So Martin, though such a course was not contemplated in his agreement with the Hôtel des Grottes, received much instruction from her in the delicate craft, which was very pleasant indeed. And the girls looked on at the lessons after the way of their kind and exchanged glances one with another, and every one, save perhaps Bigourdin, who had not yet recovered his serenity overclouded by Corinna’s rejection of his suit, was exceedingly contented.
And then, lo and behold, into this terrestrial paradise strayed the wandering feet of Lucien Viriot.
Not that Lucien was unexpected. His father, Monsieur Viriot, marchand de vins en gros, and one of the famous circle at the Café de l’Univers, had for the past month or two nightly proclaimed the approaching release of the young man from military service. Martin had heard him. Bigourdin on their walks home together had dilated on the heaven-decreed union of the two young people and the loneliness of his lot. Where would he find, at least, such a ménagère as Félise?
“It’s a pity Corinna hadn’t any sense,” said Martin on one of these occasions.
Bigourdin heaved a mighty sigh. “Ah, mon vieux!” said he by way of answer. The sigh and the “Ah, mon vieux!” were eloquent of shattered ideals.
“There is always Madame Thuillier who used to help me when Félise was little,” he continued after a while, meditatively. “She has experience, but she is as ugly as a monkey, the poor woman!”
Whereupon he sighed again, leaving Martin in doubt as to the exact position he intended the ill-favoured lady to occupy in his household.
Anyhow, Martin was forewarned of the ex-warrior’s advent. So was Félise. “But I cannot leave you, mon oncle,” she cried in dismay. “What would become of you? Who would mend your linen? What would become of the hotel? What would become of the fabrique?”
“Bah!” said he, snapping his fingers at such insignificant considerations. “There is always the brave Madame Thuillier.”
“But I thought you detested her—as much as you can detest anybody.”