Léopold, radiant, bowed and thanked his guests. He seated them in the phaeton, then running toward his two colleagues, who were walking modestly behind, he pressed their hands, regretting that his phaeton was too small to accommodate them also. “Follow the quay,” he directed, “and you will reach my door—‘Villa Désirée,’ the fourth one after the turn. Make haste!”
And mounting the phaeton, he took the reins and drove off, while the groom leaped lightly to the little seat behind.
The ceremony was very brilliant, and afterwards they returned for luncheon. Each one found under his napkin a present proportioned to his station. The godmother received a bracelet of solid gold, her husband a scarf-pin of rubies, Boissel a pocket book of Russian leather, and Pitolet a superb meerschaum pipe. “It was Désirée,” they said, “who offered these presents to her new friends.”
Mme. Torchebeuf, blushing with confusion and pleasure, placed on her fat arm the brilliant circle, and, as the chief wore a narrow black cravat, which would not receive the pin, he stuck the jewel in the lapel of his frock-coat, under the Legion of Honour, as if it had been another decoration of an inferior order.
Outside the window the shining band of the river was seen, curving toward Suresnes, its banks shaded with trees. The sun fell in a rain on the water, making it seem a river of fire. The beginning of the repast was rather solemn, being made formal by the presence of M. and Mme. Torchebeuf. After a while, however, things began to go better. Cachelin threw out some heavy jokes, which he felt would be permitted him since he was rich, and everyone laughed at them. If Pitolet or Boissel had uttered them, the guests would certainly have been shocked.
At dessert, the infant was brought in and received a kiss from each of the company. Smothered in a cloud of snowy lace, the baby looked at the guests with its blue eyes void of intelligence or expression, and rolled its bald head from side to side with an air of newly awakened interest.
Pitolet, amid the confusion of voices, whispered in the ear of Boissel: “It looks like a little Mazette.” The joke went round the Ministry next day.
At two o’clock the health of the newly christened baby was drunk, and Cachelin proposed to show his guests over the property, and then to take them for a walk on the banks of the Seine.
They moved in a slow procession from room to room, from the cellar to the garret; then they examined the garden tree by tree, plant by plant; after which, separating into two parties, they set out for a walk.
Cachelin, who did not feel at home in the company of ladies, drew Boissel and Pitolet into a café on the bank of the river, while Mesdames Torchebeuf and Lesable, with their husbands, walked in the opposite direction, these refined ladies not being able to mingle with the common Sunday herd.
They walked slowly along the path, followed by the two men, who talked gravely of the affairs of the office. On the river the boats were continually passing, propelled by long strokes of the oars in the hands of jolly fellows, the muscles of whose bare arms rolled under the sunburned skin. Women, reclining on black or white fur rugs, managed the tillers, drowsing under the hot sun, holding open over their heads, like enormous flowers floating on the surface of the water, umbrellas of red, yellow, and blue silk. Cries from one boat to the other, calls, and shouts, and a remote murmur of human voices lower down, confused and continuous, indicated where the swarming crowds were enjoying a holiday.
Long files of fishermen stood motionless all along the river, while the swimmers, almost naked, standing in heavy fishing boats, plunged in head-foremost, climbed back upon the boats and leaped into the water again.
Mme. Torchebeuf looked on in surprise.
Cora said to her: “It is like this every Sunday; it spoils this charming country for me.”
A canoe moved softly by. Two women rowed, while two men were stretched in the bottom of the boat. One of the women, turning her head towards the shore, cried:
“Hello! hello! you respectable women! I have a man for sale, very cheap! Do you want him?”
Cora turned away contemptuously and taking the arm of her companion said: “We cannot remain here; let us go. What infamous creatures!”
They moved away as M. Torchebeuf was saying to Lesable: “It is settled for the first of January. The head of the Department has positively promised me.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, dear master,” Lesable replied.
When they reached home they found Cachelin, Pitolet, and Boissel laughing immoderately and almost carrying old Savon, whom they jokingly declared they had found on the beach in the company of a girl.
The frightened old man was crying: “It is not true, no, it is not true. It is not right to say that, M. Cachelin, it is not kind.”
And Cachelin, choking with laughter, cried: “Ah, you old rogue, did you not call her your ‘sweet goose quill’? We caught you, you rascal!”
Then the ladies, too, began to laugh at the dismay of the poor old man.
Cachelin continued: “With M. Torchebeuf’s permission, we will keep him prisoner as a punishment and make him dine with us.”
The chief good-humouredly consented, and they continued to laugh about the lady abandoned by the old man, who protested all the time, annoyed at this mischievous farce.
The subject was the occasion of inexhaustible wit throughout the evening, which sometimes even bordered on the obscene.
Cora and Mme. Torchebeuf, seated under a tent on the lawn, watched the reflections of the setting sun, which threw upon the leaves a purple glow.
Not a breath stirred the branches, a serene and infinite peace fell from the calm and flaming heavens. Some boats still passed, more
