Mademoiselle forestalled his wants. She saw when he needed bread, her eyes brooded over him; if he turned his head, she adroitly supplemented his portion of any dish which he seemed to like; if he had been a glutton, she would have killed him. What a delicious earnest of all that she counted upon doing for her lover! She made no silly blunders of self-depreciation this time! She went gallantly forward, full sail, and all flags flying; posed as the queen of Alençon, and vaunted her preserves. Indeed, she fished for compliments, talking about herself as if her trumpeter were dead. And she saw that she pleased the Vicomte, for her wish to please had so transformed her, that she grew almost feminine. It was not without inward exultation that she heard footsteps while they sat at dessert; sounds of going and coming in the antechamber and noises in the salon; and knew that the usual company was arriving. She called the attention of her uncle and M. de Troisville to this fact as a proof of the affection in which she was held, whereas it really was a symptom of the paroxysm of curiosity which convulsed the whole town. Impatient to show herself in her glory, she ordered coffee and the liqueurs to be taken to the salon, whither Jacquelin went to display to the elite of Alençon the splendors of a Dresden china service, which only left the cupboard twice in a twelvemonth. All these circumstances were noted by people disposed to criticise under their breath.
“Egad!” cried du Bousquier, “nothing but Mme. Amphoux’s liqueurs, which only come out on the four great festival days!”
“Decidedly, this match must have been arranged by correspondence for a year past,” said M. le Président du Ronceret. “The postmaster here has been receiving letters with an Odessa postmark for the last twelve months.”
Mme. Granson shuddered. M. le Chevalier de Valois had eaten a heavy dinner, but he felt the pallor spreading over his left cheek; felt, too, that he was betraying his secret, and said, “It is cold today, do you not think? I am freezing.”
“It is the neighborhood of Russia,” suggested du Bousquier. And the Chevalier looked at his rival as who should say, “Well put in!”
Mlle. Cormon was so radiant, so triumphant, that she looked positively handsome, it was thought. Nor was this unwonted brilliancy wholly due to sentiment; ever since the morning the blood had been surging through her veins; the presentiments of a great crisis at hand affected her nerves. It needed a combination of circumstances to make her so little like herself. With what joy did she not solemnly introduce the Vicomte to the Chevalier, and the Chevalier to the Vicomte; all Alençon was presented to M. de Troisville, and M. de Troisville made the acquaintance of all Alençon. It fell out, naturally enough, that the Vicomte and the Chevalier, two born aristocrats, were in sympathy at once; they recognized each other for inhabitants of the same social sphere. They began to chat as they stood by the fire. A circle formed about them listening devoutly to their conversation, though it was carried on sotto voce. Fully to realize the scene, imagine Mlle. Cormon standing with her back to the chimneypiece, busy preparing coffee for her supposed suitor.
M. de Valois. “So M. le Vicomte is coming to settle here, people say.”
M. de Troisville. “Yes, monsieur. I have come to look for a house.” (Mlle. Cormon turns, cup in hand.) “And I must have a large one”—(Mlle. Cormon offers the cup of coffee) “to hold my family.” (The room grows dark before the old maid’s eyes.)
M. de Valois. “Are you married?”
M. de Troisville. “Yes, I have been married for sixteen years. My wife is the daughter of the Princess Scherbelloff.”
Mlle. Cormon dropped like one thunderstruck. Du Bousquier, seeing her reel, sprang forward, and caught her in his arms. Somebody opened the door to let him pass out with his enormous burden. The mettled Republican, counseled by Josette, summoned up his strength, bore the old maid to her room, and deposited her upon the bed. Josette, armed with a pair of scissors, cut the stay-laces, drawn outrageously tight. Du Bousquier, rough and ready, dashed cold water over Mlle. Cormon’s face and the bust, which broke from its bounds like Loire in flood. The patient opened her eye’s, saw du Bousquier, and gave a cry of alarmed modesty. Du Bousquier withdrew, leaving half-a-dozen women in possession, with Mme. Granson at their head, Mme. Granson beaming with joy.
What had the Chevalier de Valois done? True to his system, he had been covering the retreat.
“Poor Mlle. Cormon!” he said, addressing M. de Troisville, but
