“Right you are!” said Maxime.
“How I shall be bored in that little town!” said Aurélie philosophically. “I have heard so much about that part of the country from d’Esgrignon and Madame Val-Noble, that it is as though I had lived there already.”
“But if I could promise you the help of the title?”
“Oh, Maxime, if you can really do that.—Ay, but the pigeon refuses to fly—”
“And he is very ugly, with his skin like a plum; he has bristles instead of whiskers, and looks like a wild boar, though he has eyes like a bird of prey. He will be the finest President ever seen.—Be easy! In ten minutes he will be singing you Isabelle’s song in the fourth act of Robert le Diable, ‘Je suis à tes genoux.’—But you must undertake to send Arthur back to fall at Béatrix’s feet.”
“It is difficult, but among us we may manage it.”
At about half-past ten the gentlemen came into the drawing-room to take coffee. In the position in which Madame Schontz, Couture, and du Ronceret found themselves, it is easy to imagine the effect that was produced on the ambitious Norman by the following conversation between Couture and Maxime in a corner, carried on indeed in an undertone that they might not be overheard, but which Fabien contrived to hear.
“My dear fellow, if you were wise, you would accept the place of Receiver-General in some out-of-the-way place; Madame de Rochefide would get it for you. Aurélie’s million francs would enable you to deposit the security, and you would settle everything on her as your wife. Then, if you steered your boat cleverly, you would be made deputy, and the only premium I ask for having saved you will be your vote in the Chamber.”
“I shall always be proud to serve under you.”
“Oh, my boy, you have had a very close shave! Just fancy, Aurélie thought herself in love with that Norman from Alençon; she wanted to have him made a Baron, President of the Court in his native town, and officer of the Legion of Honor. The noodle never guessed what Madame Schontz was worth, and you owe your good fortune to her disgust; so do not give such a clever woman time to change her mind. For my part, I will go and put the irons in the fire.”
So Maxime left Couture in the seventh heaven of happiness, and said to la Palférine, “Shall I take you with me, my son?”
By eleven o’clock Aurélie found herself left with Couture, Fabien, and Rochefide. Arthur was asleep in an armchair; Couture and Fabien were trying to outstay each other, but without success. Madame Schontz put an end to this contest by saying to Couture, “Till tomorrow, dear boy!” which he took in good part.
“Mademoiselle,” said Fabien, in a low voice, “when you saw me so unready to respond to the proposal you made me indirectly, do not imagine that there was the smallest hesitation on my part; but you do not know my mother; she would never consent to my happiness …”
“You are of age to address her with a sommation respectueuse3 my dear fellow,” retorted Aurélie insolently. “However, if you are afraid of mamma, you are not the man for my money.”
“Joséphine!” said the Heir affectionately, as he boldly put his right arm round Madame Schontz’s waist, “I believed that you loved me.”
“And what then?”
“I might perhaps pacify my mother, and gain more than her consent.”
“How?”
“If you would use your influence—”
“To get you created Baron, officer of the Legion of Honor, and President of the Court, my boy—is that it?—Listen to me, I have done so many things in the course of my life, that I am capable of being virtuous! I could be an honest woman, a loyal wife, and take my husband in tow to upper regions; but I insist on being so loved by him that not a glance, not a thought, shall ever be given to any heart but mine, not even in a wish. … How does that do for you? Do not bind yourself rashly; it is for life, my boy.”
“With a woman like you, done, without looking twice!” cried Fabien, as much intoxicated by a look as he was by the West Indian liqueurs.
“You shall never repent of that word, my brave boy; you shall be a peer of France.—As to that poor old chap,” she went on, looking at Rochefide asleep, “it is a, double l, all, o-v-e-r, ver—all over!”
She said it so cleverly, so prettily, that Fabien seized Madame Schontz and kissed her with an impulse of passion and joy, in which the intoxication of love and wine were second to that of happiness and ambition.
“But now, my dear child,” said she, “you must remember henceforth to behave respectfully to your wife, not to play the lover, and to leave me to get out of my slough as decently as may be.—And Couture, who believed himself a rich man and Receiver-General!—”
“I have a horror of the man,” said Fabien. “I wish I might never see him again!”
“I will have him here no more,” said the courtesan with a little prudish air. “Now that we understand each other, my Fabien, go; it is one o’clock.”
This little scene gave rise in the Schontz household, hitherto so perfectly happy, to a phase of domestic warfare between Arthur and Aurélie, such as any covert interest on the part of one of the
