Part 32 (1/2)
”Well, then,” said Soudry, following him to the portico, ”to-morrow, early.”
”I'll come and fetch you--Ha! Lupin,” he said to the notary, who came out with him to order his horse, ”try to make sure that Madame Sarcus hears all the Shopman says and does against us at the Prefecture.”
”If she doesn't hear it, who will?” replied Lupin.
”Excuse me,” said Rigou, smiling blandly, ”but there are such a lot of ninnies in there that I forgot there was one clever man.”
”The wonder is that I don't grow rusty among them,” replied Lupin, naively.
”Is it true that Soudry has hired a pretty servant?”
”Yes,” replied Lupin; ”for the last week our worthy mayor has set the charms of his wife in full relief by comparing her with a little peasant-girl about the age of an old ox; and we can't yet imagine how he settles it with Madame Soudry, for, would you believe it, he has the audacity to go to bed early.”
”I'll find out to-morrow,” said the village Sardanapalus, trying to smile.
The two plotters shook hands as they parted.
Rigou, who did not like to be on the road after dark for, notwithstanding his present popularity, he was cautious, called to his horse, ”Get up, Citizen,”--a joke this son of 1793 was fond of letting fly at the Revolution. Popular revolutions have no more bitter enemies than those they have trained themselves.
”Pere Rigou's visits are pretty short,” said Gourdon the poet to Madame Soudry.
”They are pleasant, if they are short,” she answered.
”Like his own life,” said the doctor; ”his abuse of pleasures will cut that short.”
”So much the better,” remarked Soudry, ”my son will step into the property.”
”Did he bring you any news about Les Aigues?” asked the Abbe Taupin.
”Yes, my dear abbe,” said Madame Soudry. ”Those people are the scourge of the neighborhood. I can't comprehend how it is that Madame de Montcornet, who is certainly a well-bred woman, doesn't understand their interests better.”
”And yet she has a model before her eyes,” said the abbe.
”Who is that?” asked Madame Soudry, smirking.
”The Soulanges.”
”Ah, yes!” replied the queen after a pause.
”Here I am!” cried Madame Vermut, coming into the room; ”and without my re-active,--for Vermut is so inactive in all that concerns me that I can't call him an active of any kind.”
”What the devil is that cursed old Rigou doing there?” said Soudry to Guerbet, as they saw the green chaise stop before the gate of the Tivoli. ”He is one of those tiger-cats whose every step has an object.”
”You may well say cursed,” replied the fat little collector.
”He has gone into the Cafe de la Paix,” remarked Gourdon, the doctor.
”And there's some trouble there,” added Gourdon the poet; ”I can hear them yelping from here.”
”That cafe,” said the abbe, ”is like the temple of Ja.n.u.s; it was called the Cafe de la Guerre under the Empire, and then it was peace itself; the most respectable of the bourgeoisie met there for conversation--”