Part 7 (1/2)

”Azor is, however, a good purveyor,” said the recorder of mortgages, with the air of saying a witty thing.

At dessert du Bousquier was still the topic of conversation, having given rise to various little jokes which the wine rendered sparkling.

Following the example of the recorder, each guest capped his neighbor's joke with another: Du Bousquier was a father, but not a confessor; he was father less; he was father LY; he was not a reverend father; nor yet a conscript-father--

”Nor can he be a foster-father,” said the Abbe de Sponde, with a gravity which stopped the laughter.

”Nor a n.o.ble father,” added the chevalier.

The Church and the n.o.bility descended thus into the arena of puns, without, however, losing their dignity.

”Hus.h.!.+” exclaimed the recorder of mortgages. ”I hear the creaking of du Bousquier's boots.”

It usually happens that a man is ignorant of rumors that are afloat about him. A whole town may be talking of his affairs; may calumniate and decry him, but if he has no good friends, he will know nothing about it. Now the innocent du Bousquier was superb in his ignorance.

No one had told him as yet of Suzanne's revelations; he therefore appeared very jaunty and slightly conceited when the company, leaving the dining-room, returned to the salon for their coffee; several other guests had meantime a.s.sembled for the evening. Mademoiselle Cormon, from a sense of shamefacedness, dared not look at the terrible seducer. She seized upon Athanase, and began to lecture him with the queerest plat.i.tudes about royalist politics and religious morality.

Not possessing, like the Chevalier de Valois, a snuff-box adorned with a princess, by the help of which he could stand this torrent of silliness, the poor poet listened to the words of her whom he loved with a stupid air, gazing, meanwhile, at her enormous bust, which held itself before him in that still repose which is the attribute of all great ma.s.ses. His love produced in him a sort of intoxication which changed the shrill voice of the old maid into a soft murmur, and her flat remarks into witty speeches. Love is a maker of false coin, continually changing copper pennies into gold-pieces, and sometimes turning its real gold into copper.

”Well, Athanase, will you promise me?”

This final sentence struck the ear of the absorbed young man like one of those noises which wake us with a bound.

”What, mademoiselle?”

Mademoiselle Cormon rose hastily, and looked at du Bousquier, who at that moment resembled the stout G.o.d of Fable which the Republic stamped upon her coins. She walked up to Madame Granson, and said in her ear:--

”My dear friend, you son is an idiot. That lyceum has ruined him,” she added, remembering the insistence with which the chevalier had spoken of the evils of education in such schools.

What a catastrophe! Unknown to himself, the luckless Athanase had had an occasion to fling an ember of his own fire upon the pile of brush gathered in the heart of the old maid. Had he listened to her, he might have made her, then and there, perceive his pa.s.sion; for, in the agitated state of Mademoiselle Cormon's mind, a single word would have sufficed. But that stupid absorption in his own sentiments, which characterizes young and true love, had ruined him, as a child full of life sometimes kills itself out of ignorance.

”What have you been saying to Mademoiselle Cormon?” demanded his mother.

”Nothing.”

”Nothing; well, I can explain that,” she thought to herself, putting off till the next day all further reflection on the matter, and attaching but little importance to Mademoiselle Cormon's words; for she fully believed that du Bousquier was forever lost in the old maid's esteem after the revelation of that evening.

Soon the four tables were filled with their sixteen players. Four persons were playing piquet,--an expensive game, at which the most money was lost. Monsieur Choisnel, the procureur-du-roi, and two ladies went into the boudoir for a game at backgammon. The gla.s.s l.u.s.tres were lighted; and then the flower of Mademoiselle Cormon's company gathered before the fireplace, on sofas, and around the tables, and each couple said to her as they arrived,--

”So you are going to-morrow to Prebaudet?”

”Yes, I really must,” she replied.

On this occasion the mistress of the house appeared preoccupied.

Madame Granson was the first to perceive the quite unnatural state of the old maid's mind,--Mademoiselle Cormon was thinking!

”What are you thinking of, cousin?” she said at last, finding her seated in the boudoir.

”I am thinking,” she replied, ”of that poor girl. As the president of the Maternity Society, I will give you fifty francs for her.”

”Fifty francs!” cried Madame Granson. ”But you have never given as much as that.”