Suddenly Loiseau, with an anxious expression, raised his arms and shouted: “Silence!” They all stopped talking, surprised and already terrified. Then he listened intently, motioning to them to be silent with his two hands, and raising his eyes to the ceiling. He listened again, and resumed in his natural voice: “It is all right. Don’t worry.”
They did not understand at first, but soon a smile spread over their faces.
A quarter of an hour later he began the same comedy, and repeated it frequently during the evening. He pretended to be questioning someone on the floor above, giving advice in double-meaning phrases which he drew from his repertory as a commercial traveller. At times he would assume an air of sadness, and sigh: “Poor girl”; or he would mutter between his teeth with a furious air: “You swine of a Prussian!”—Sometimes, when least expected, he would shout in resonant tones: “Enough! Enough!” adding, as though speaking to himself, “if only we see her again; if the scoundrel does not kill her!”
Although these jokes were in deplorable taste, they amused everyone and hurt nobody, for, like everything else, indignation is qualified by circumstances, and the atmosphere about them had gradually become charged with obscene thoughts.
By the time they reached dessert the women themselves were indulging in decidedly risky witticisms. Eyes grew bright, tongues were loosened, a good deal of wine had been consumed. The Count, who, even in his cups, retained his characteristic air of diplomatic gravity, made some highly spiced comparisons on the subject of the end of the winter season at the Pole and the joy of icebound mariners at sight of an opening to the south.
Loiseau, now in full swing, rose, and lifting high his glass of champagne, “To our deliverance!” he cried. Everybody started to their feet with acclamation. Even the two Sisters of Mercy, yielding to the solicitations of the ladies, consented to take a sip of the effervescing wine which they had never tasted before. They pronounced it to be very like lemonade, though the taste was finer.
“What a pity there is no piano,” said Loiseau as a crowning point to the situation, “we might have finished up with a quadrille.”
Cornudet had not uttered a word, nor made a sign of joining in the general hilarity; he was apparently plunged in the gravest abstractions, only pulling viciously at his great beard from time to time as if to draw it out longer than before. At last, about midnight, when the company was preparing to separate, Loiseau came stumbling over to him, and digging him in the ribs: “You seem rather down in the mouth this evening, citizen—haven’t said a word.”
Cornudet threw up his head angrily, and sweeping the company with a flashing and terrible look: “I tell you all that what you have done today is infamous!”
He rose, made his way to the door, exclaimed once again, “Infamous!” and vanished.
This somewhat dashed their spirits for the moment. Loiseau, nonplussed at first, soon regained his aplomb and burst into a roar of laughter. “Sour grapes, old man—sour grapes!”
The others not understanding the allusion, he proceeded to relate the “mysteries of the corridor.” This was followed by an uproarious revival of gaiety. The ladies were in a frenzy of delight, the Count and Monsieur Carré-Lamadon laughed till they cried. They could not believe it.
“Do you mean to say he wanted—”
“I tell you I saw it with my own eyes.”
“And she refused?”
“Because the Prussian was in the next room.”
“It is incredible.”
“As true as I stand here!”
The Count nearly choked; the manufacturer held both his sides.
“And you can understand that he does not quite see the joke of the thing this evening—oh, no—not at all!”
And they all three went off again, breathless, choking, sick with laughter.
After that they parted for the night. But Madame Loiseau remarked to her husband when they were alone that that little cat of a Carré-Lamadon had laughed on the wrong side of her mouth all the evening. “You know how it is with these women—they dote upon a uniform, and whether it is French or Prussian matters precious little to them. But, Lord—it seems to me a poor way of looking at things.”
All night the darkness of the corridor seemed full of thrills, of slight noises, scarcely audible, the pattering of bare feet, and creaking that was almost imperceptible. Certainly nobody got to sleep until very late, for it was long before the lights ceased to shine under the doors. Champagne, they say, often has that disturbing effect; it makes one restless and wakeful.
Next morning a brilliant winter sun shone on the dazzling snow. The diligence was by this time ready and waiting before the door, while a flock of white pigeons, muffled in their thick plumage, strutted solemnly in and out among the feet of the six horses, seeking what they might devour.
The driver, enveloped in his sheepskin, sat on the box smoking his pipe, and the radiant travellers were busily laying in provisions for the rest of the journey.
They were only waiting now for Boule de Suif. She appeared.
She looked agitated and downcast as she advanced timidly towards her fellow travellers, who all, with one movement, turned away their heads as if they had not seen her. The Count, with a dignified movement, took his wife by the arm and drew her away from this contaminating contact.
The poor thing stopped short, bewildered; then gathering up her courage she accosted the wife of the manufacturer with a humble “Good morning, Madame.” The other merely replied with an impertinent little nod, accompanied by a stare of outraged virtue. Everybody seemed suddenly extremely busy, and they avoided her as if she had brought the plague in her skirts. They then precipitated themselves into the vehicle, where she arrived the last and by herself, and resumed in silence the seat she had
