“There, the battle has begun. When you go there,” said Monsieur Hochon, “you can speak plainly to him about his nephews.”
The letter was delivered by Gritte, who returned in ten minutes to report to her superiors all she had been able to see or hear, as is the custom in the provinces.
“Madame,” said she, “since last evening, all that part of the house that madame had left—”
“Madame—who?” asked old Hochon.
“Oh, they call la Rabouilleuse madame over there,” replied Gritte.
“She had left the drawing-room and everything that was about Monsieur Rouget in a dreadful state; but since yesterday the house is all to rights again, as it was before Monsieur Maxence came there. You could see yourself in everything. Védie told me that Kouski was out on horseback by six this morning; he came in about nine, bringing in provisions. Indeed, there is to be the best of dinners, a dinner fit for the Archbishop of Bourges. Little pans are standing in big pans, and everything in order in the kitchen. ‘I mean to treat my nephew handsomely,’ the old fellow said, and made them tell him all they were doing. The Rougets were highly flattered by the letter, it would seem; madame came out to tell me so. Oh, she is dressed! Such a dress! I never saw anything handsomer! Madame has diamonds in her ears—two diamonds worth a thousand crowns apiece, Védie told me—and lace! and rings on her fingers, and bracelets good enough for a shrine, and a silk gown fit for an altar-front! And then says she to me: ‘Monsieur is delighted to think his sister is so ready and willing, and I hope she will allow us to entertain her as she deserves. And we look forward to her good opinion of us when she hears how welcome we make her son. And monsieur is most impatient to see his nephew.’—Madame had little black satin shoes and stockings! Oh, really wonderful. Like flowers on the silk, and holes like lace, and you see the pink flesh through. In short, she is up to the nines! With such a dear little apron in front of her, that Védie told me that apron alone cost two years of our wages—”
“Come, come, we must get ourselves up!” said the artist, smiling.
“Well, Monsieur Hochon, and what are you thinking about?” said the old lady, when Gritte had left the room.
Madame Hochon pointed to her husband sitting with his head in his hands, and his elbows on the arms of his chair, lost in thought.
“You have a Maître Bonin to deal with,” said the old man. “You, young man, with your notions, are no match in a struggle with a scoundrel of such skill as Maxence. Whatever I may say, you are sure to make some blunder; but, at any rate, tell me this evening all you see, hear, and do. Go—and God be with you! Try to have a few minutes alone with your uncle. If, in spite of all you can do, you fail in that, it will throw some light on their scheme; but if you are alone with him for one instant—alone, without being overheard, mind you!—You must speak very plainly to him as to his position—which is not a becoming one—and plead your mother’s cause.”
At four o’clock Joseph crossed the straits which divided the Hochons’ house from the Rougets’, the avenue of sickly lime-trees, two hundred feet long, and as wide as the Grande Narette. When the nephew appeared, Kouski, in freshly blacked boots, black trousers, white waistcoat, and black coat, led the way to announce him.
The table was ready laid in the sitting-room, and Joseph, who easily identified his uncle, went straight up to him and embraced him, bowing to Flore and Maxence.
“We have never met since I came into the world, my dear uncle,” said the painter gaily. “But better late than never.”
“You are very welcome, my dear boy,” said the old man, looking at his nephew with a bewildered air.
“Madame,” said Joseph to Flore with an artist’s enthusiasm, “this morning I was envying my uncle the pleasure he enjoys of admiring you every day.”
“Is not she beautiful?” said the old man, his dull eyes almost sparkling.
“Beautiful enough to be a painter’s model.”
“Nephew,” said the old man, his elbow being nudged by Flore, “this is Monsieur Maxence Gilet, a man who served the Emperor, like your brother, in the Imperial Guard.”
Joseph rose and bowed.
“Your brother, I think, was a dragoon, and I was only a mud-crusher,” said Maxence.
“On horseback or on foot,” observed Flore, “you risked your skin all the same.”
Joseph studied Max as narrowly as Max studied Joseph. Max was dressed like the young men of fashion of the day, for he had his clothes from Paris. A pair of sky-blue cloth trousers, very fully pleated, made the best of his feet by showing only the tips of his boots and his spurs. His waist was firmly held by a white waistcoat with fancy gold buttons, laced behind to serve as a belt; this waistcoat, buttoning to the throat, set off his broad chest, and his black satin stock obliged him to hold his head up like a soldier. His black coat was extremely well cut. A handsome gold chain hung from his waistcoat pocket, where a flat watch scarcely showed. He was playing with one of the patent watch-keys just invented by Breguet.
“He is a very good-looking fellow!” said Joseph to himself, admiring as an artist the face full of life, the appearance of strength, and the keen gray eyes inherited by Max from his gentleman father. “My uncle must be a deadly old bore, and that handsome girl has sought compensation. It is a case of three in a boat, that is very clear.”
At this moment Baruch and François came in.
“You have not yet
