“And this stranger, this guest of yours, who was he?”
“Ah! my lord!” answered Madame Magloire, “you already know him I think only too well.”
“What!” said the favoured lover, “do you mean to say it was that drunken lout of the other night, again?”
“The very same, my lord.”
“Well, all I can say is—if ever I get him into my grip again! …”
“My lord,” responded Suzanne, in a voice as soft as music, “you must not harbour evil designs against your enemies; on the contrary, you must forgive them as we are taught to do by our Holy Religion.”
“There is also another religion which teaches that, my dearest love, one of which you are the all-supreme goddess, and I but a humble neophyte. … And I am wrong in wishing evil to the scoundrel, for it was owing to the treacherous and cowardly way in which he attacked and did for me, that I had the opportunity I had so long wished for, of being introduced into this house. The lucky blow on my forehead with his stone, made me faint; and because you saw I had fainted, you called your husband; it was on account of your husband finding me without consciousness beneath your window, and believing I had been set upon by thieves, that he had me carried indoors; and lastly, because you were so moved by pity at the thought of what I had suffered for you, that you were willing to let me in here. And so, this good-for-nothing fellow, this contemptible scamp, is after all the source of all good, for all the good of life for me is in your love; nevertheless if ever he comes within reach of my whip, he will not have a very pleasant time of it.”
“It seems then,” muttered Thibault, swearing to himself, “that my wish has again turned to the advantage of someone else! Ah! my friend, black wolf, I have still something to learn, but, confound it all! I will in future think so well over my wishes before expressing them that the pupil will become master … but to whom does that voice, that I seem to know, belong?” Thibault continued, trying to recall it, “for the voice is familiar to me, of that I am certain!”
“You would be even more incensed against him, poor wretch, if I were to tell you something.”
“And what is that, my love?”
“Well, that good-for-nothing fellow, as you call him, is making love to me.”
“Phew!”
“That is so, my lord,” said Madame Suzanne, laughing.
“What! that boor, that low rascal! Where is he? Where does he hide himself? By Beelzebub! I’ll throw him to my dogs to eat!”
And then, all at once, Thibault recognised his man. “Ah! my lord Baron,” he muttered, “it’s you, is it?”
“Pray do not trouble yourself about it, my lord,” said Madame Suzanne, laying her two hands on her lover’s shoulders, and obliging him to sit down again, “your lordship is the only person whom I love, and even were it not so, a man with a lock of red hair right in the middle of his forehead is not the one to whom I should give away my heart.” And as the recollection of this lock of hair, which had made her laugh so at dinner, came back to her, she again gave way to her amusement.
A violent feeling of anger towards the Bailiff’s wife took possession of Thibault.
“Ah! traitress!” he exclaimed to himself, “what would I not give for your husband, your good, upright husband, to walk in at this moment and surprise you.”
Scarcely was the wish uttered, when the door of communication between Suzanne’s room and that of Monsieur Magloire was thrown wide open, and in walked her husband with an enormous nightcap on his head, which made him look nearly five feet high, and holding a lighted candle in his hand.
“Ah! ah!” muttered Thibault. “Well done! It’s my turn to laugh now, Madame Magloire.”
XIII
Where It Is Demonstrated That a Woman Never Speaks More Eloquently Than When She Holds Her Tongue
As Thibault was talking to himself he did not catch the few hurried words which Suzanne whispered to the Baron; and all he saw was that she appeared to totter, and then fell back into her lover’s arms, as if in a dead faint.
The Bailiff stopped short as he caught sight of this curious group, lit up by his candle. He was facing Thibault, and the latter endeavoured to read in Monsieur Magloire’s face what was passing in his mind.
But the Bailiff’s jovial physiognomy was not made by nature to express any strong emotion, and Thibault could detect nothing in it but a benevolent astonishment on the part of the amiable husband.
The Baron, also, evidently detected nothing more, for with a coolness and ease of manner, which produced on Thibault a surprise beyond expression, he turned to the Bailiff, and asked:
“Well, friend Magloire, and how do you carry your wine this evening?”
“Why, is it you, my lord?” replied the Bailiff opening his fat little eyes. “Ah! pray excuse me, and believe
