The Troisville estates lay between Alençon and Mortagne. Josette, therefore, knew about the different branches of the family. A word let fall by her mistress just as they reached the pavé of Alençon put Josette in possession of the facts, and a discussion sprang up, in the course of which the two women settled between themselves that the expected guest must be a man of forty or forty-two, a bachelor, neither rich nor poor. Mademoiselle saw herself Vicomtesse de Troisville.
“And here is uncle telling me nothing, knowing nothing, and wanting to know nothing! Oh, so like uncle! He would forget his nose if it was not fastened to his face.”
Have you not noticed how mature spinsters, under these circumstances, grow as intelligent, fierce, bold, and full of promises as a Richard III? To them, as to clerics in liquor, nothing is sacred.
In one moment, from the upper end of the Rue Saint-Blaise to the Porte de Séez, the town of Alençon heard of Mlle. Cormon’s return with aggravating circumstances, heard with a mighty perturbation of its vitals and trouble of the organs of life public and domestic. Cook-maids, shopkeepers, and passersby carried the news from door to door; then, without delay, it circulated in the upper spheres, and almost simultaneously the words, “Mlle. Cormon has come back,” exploded like a bomb in every house.
Meanwhile Jacquelin climbed down from his wooden bench in front, polished by some process unknown to cabinetmakers, and with his own hands opened the great gates with the rounded tops. They were closed in Mlle. Cormon’s absence as a sign of mourning: for when she went away her house was shut up, and the faithful took it in turn to show hospitality to the Abbé de Sponde. (M. de Valois used to pay his debt by an invitation to dine at the Marquis d’Esgrignon’s.) Jacquelin gave the familiar call to Penelope standing in the middle of the road; and the animal, accustomed to this manoeuvre, turned into the courtyard, steering clear of the flowerbed, till Jacquelin took the bridle and walked round with the chaise to the steps before the door.
“Mariette!” called Mlle. Cormon.
“Mademoiselle?” returned Mariette, engaged in shutting the gates.
“Has the gentleman come?”
“No, mademoiselle.”
“And is my uncle here?”
“He is at the church, mademoiselle.”
Jacquelin and Josette were standing on the lowest step of the flight, holding out their hands to steady their mistress’ descent from the cariole; she, meanwhile, had hoisted herself upon the shaft, and was clutching at the curtains, before springing down into their arms. It was two years since she had dared to trust herself upon the iron step of double strength, secured to the shaft by a fearfully made contrivance with huge bolts.
From the height of the steps, mademoiselle surveyed her courtyard with an air of satisfaction.
“There, there, Mariette, let the great gate alone and come here.”
“There is something up,” Jacquelin said to Mariette as she came past the chaise.
“Let us see now, child, what is there in the house?” said Mlle. Cormon, collapsing on the bench in the long antechamber as if she were exhausted.
“Just nothing at all,” replied Mariette, hands on hips. “Mademoiselle knows quite well that M. l’Abbé always dines out when she is not at home; yesterday I went to bring him back from Mlle. Armande’s.”
“Then where is he?”
“M. l’Abbé? He is gone to church; he will not be back till three o’clock.”
“Uncle thinks of nothing! Why couldn’t he have sent you to market? Go down now, Mariette, and, without throwing money away, spare for nothing, get the best, finest, and daintiest of everything. Go to the coach office and ask where people send orders for pâtés. And I want crayfish from the brooks along the Brillante. What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock all but a quarter.”
“Oh dear, oh dear; don’t lose any time in chattering, Mariette. The visitor my uncle is expecting may come at any moment; pretty figures we should cut if he comes to breakfast.”
Mariette, turning round, saw Penelope in a lather, and gave Jacquelin a glance which said, “Mademoiselle means to put her hand on a husband this time.”
Mlle. Cormon turned to her housemaid. “Now, it is our turn, Josette; we must make arrangements for M. de Troisville to sleep here tonight.”
How gladly those words were uttered! “We must arrange for M. de Troisville” (pronounced Tréville) “to sleep here tonight!” How much lay in those few words! Hope poured like a flood through the old maid’s soul.
“Will you put him in the green chamber?”
“The Bishop’s room? No,” said mademoiselle, “it is too near mine. It is very well for his Lordship, a holy man.”
“Give him your uncle’s room.”
“It looks so bare; it would not do.”
“Lord, mademoiselle, you could have a bed put up in the boudoir in a brace of shakes; there is a fireplace there. Moreau will be sure to find a bedstead in his warehouse that will match the hangings as nearly as possible.”
“You are right, Josette. Very well; run round to Moreau’s and ask his advice about everything necessary; I give you authority. If the bed, M. de Troisville’s bed, can be set up by this evening, so that M. de Troisville shall notice nothing, supposing that M. de Troisville should happen to come in while Moreau is here, I am quite willing. If Moreau cam not promise that, M. de Troisville shall sleep in the green chamber, although M. de Troisville will be very near me.”
Josette departed; her mistress called her back.
“Tell Jacquelin all
