“It is God’s will,” she said to herself when du Bousquier appeared.
“Mademoiselle, I trust you will not take my importunity in bad part; I did not like to trust that great stupid of a René to make inquiries, and came myself.”
“I am perfectly well,” she said nervously; then, after a pause, and in a very emphatic tone, “Thank you, M. du Bousquier, for the trouble that you took and that I gave you yesterday—”
She recollected how she had lain in du Bousquier’s arms, and the accident seemed to her to be a direct order from heaven. For the first time in her life a man had seen her with her belt wrenched apart, her stay-laces cut, the jewel shaken violently out of its case.
“I was so heartily glad to carry you, that I thought you a light weight,” said he.
At this Mlle. Cormon looked at du Bousquier as she never looked at any man in the world before; and thus encouraged, the ex-contractor for forage flung a side glance that went straight to the old maid’s heart.
“It is a pity,” added he, “that this has not given me the right to keep you always.” (She was listening with rapture in her face.) “You looked dazzling as you lay swooning there on the bed; I never saw such a fine woman in my life, and I have seen a good many.—There is this about a stout woman, she is superb to look at, she has only to show herself, she triumphs.”
“You mean to laugh at me,” said the old maid; “that is not kind of you, when the whole town is perhaps putting a bad construction on things that happened yesterday.”
“It is as true as that my name is du Bousquier, mademoiselle. My feelings towards you have never changed; your first rejection did not discourage me.”
The old maid lowered her eyes. There was a pause, a painful ordeal for du Bousquier. Then Mlle. Cormon made up her mind and raised her eyelids; she looked up tenderly at du Bousquier through her tears.
“If this is so, monsieur,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “I only ask you to allow me to lead a Christian life, do not ask me to change any of my habits as to religion, leave me free to choose my directors, and I will give you my hand,” holding it out to him as she spoke.
Du Bousquier caught the plump, honest hand that held so many francs, and kissed it respectfully.
“But I have one thing more to ask,” added Mlle. Cormon, suffering him to kiss her hand.
“It is granted, and if it is impossible, it shall be done” (a reminiscence of Beaujon).
“Alas!” began the old maid, “for love of me you must burden your soul with a sin which I know is heinous; falsehood is one of the seven deadly sins; but still you can make a confession, can you not? We will both of us do penance.” They looked tenderly at each other at those words.
“Perhaps,” continued Mlle. Cormon, “after all, it is one of those deceptions which the Church calls venial—”
“Is she going to tell me that she is in Suzanne’s plight?” thought du Bousquier. “What luck!—” Aloud he said, “Well, mademoiselle?”
“And you must take it upon you—”
“What?”
“To say that this marriage was agreed upon between us six months ago.”
“Charming woman!” exclaimed the forage-contractor, and by his manner he implied that he was prepared to make even this sacrifice; “a man only does thus much for the woman he has worshiped for ten years.”
“In spite of my severity?” asked she.
“Yes, in spite of your severity.”
“M. du Bousquier, I have misjudged you.” Again she held out her big, red hand, and again du Bousquier kissed it.
At that very moment the door opened, and the betrothed couple, turning their heads, perceived the charming but too tardy Chevalier.
“Ah! fair queen,” said he, “so you have risen?”
Mlle. Cormon smiled at him, and something clutched at her heart. M. de Valois, grown remarkably young and irresistible, looked like Lauzun entering La Grande Mademoiselle’s apartments.
“Ah! my dear du Bousquier!” he continued, half laughingly, so sure was he of success. “M. de Troisville and the Abbé de Sponde are in front of your house, looking it over like a pair of surveyors.”
“On my word,” said du Bousquier, “if the Vicomte de Troisville wants it, he can have it for forty thousand francs. It is of no use whatever to me.—Always, if mademoiselle has no objection, that must be ascertained first.—Mademoiselle, may I tell?—Yes?—Very well, my dear Chevalier, you shall be the first to hear”—Mlle. Cormon dropped her eyes—“of the honor and the favor that mademoiselle is doing me; I have kept it a secret for more than six months. We are going to be married in a very few days, the contract is drawn up, we shall sign it tomorrow. So, you see, that I have no further use for my house in the Rue du Cygne. I am quietly on the lookout for a purchaser, and the Abbé de Sponde, who knew this, naturally took M. de Troisville to see it.”
There was such a color of truth about this monstrous fib that the Chevalier was quite taken in by it. My dear Chevalier was a return for all preceding defeats; it was like the victory won at Pultowa by Peter the Great over Charles XII. And thus du
