One of them, a young lad with long fair hair, put his face to the bars, and asked for bread. M. Roque ordered him to hold his tongue. But the young man repeated in a mournful tone:
“Bread!”
“Have I any to give you?”
Other prisoners presented themselves at the venthole, with their bristling beards, their burning eyeballs, all pushing forward, and yelling:
“Bread!”
Père Roque was indignant at seeing his authority slighted. In order to frighten them he took aim at them; and, borne onward into the vault by the crush that nearly smothered him, the young man, with his head thrown backward, once more exclaimed:
“Bread!”
“Hold on! here it is!” said Père Roque, firing a shot from his gun. There was a fearful howl—then, silence. At the side of the trough something white could be seen lying.
After this, M. Roque returned to his abode, for he had a house in the Rue Saint-Martin, which he used as a temporary residence; and the injury done to the front of the building during the riots had in no slight degree contributed to excite his rage. It seemed to him, when he next saw it, that he had exaggerated the amount of damage done to it. His recent act had a soothing effect on him, as if it indemnified him for his loss.
It was his daughter herself who opened the door for him. She immediately made the remark that she had felt uneasy at his excessively prolonged absence. She was afraid that he had met with some misfortune—that he had been wounded.
This manifestation of filial love softened Père Roque. He was astonished that she should have set out on a journey without Catherine.
“I sent her out on a message,” was Louise’s reply.
And she made enquiries about his health, about one thing or another; then, with an air of indifference, she asked him whether he had chanced to come across Frederick:
“No; I didn’t see him!”
It was on his account alone that she had come up from the country.
Someone was walking at that moment in the lobby.
“Oh! excuse me—”
And she disappeared.
Catherine had not found Frederick. He had been several days away, and his intimate friend, M. Deslauriers, was now living in the provinces.
Louise once more presented herself, shaking all over, without being able to utter a word. She leaned against the furniture.
“What’s the matter with you? Tell me—what’s the matter with you?” exclaimed her father.
She indicated by a wave of her hand that it was nothing, and with a great effort of will she regained her composure.
The keeper of the restaurant at the opposite side of the street brought them soup. But Père Roque had passed through too exciting an ordeal to be able to control his emotions. “He is not likely to die;” and at dessert he had a sort of fainting fit. A doctor was at once sent for, and he prescribed a potion. Then, when M. Roque was in bed, he asked to be as well wrapped up as possible in order to bring on perspiration. He gasped; he moaned.
“Thanks, my good Catherine! Kiss your poor father, my chicken! Ah! those revolutions!”
And, when his daughter scolded him for having made himself ill by tormenting his mind on her account, he replied:
“Yes! you are right! But I couldn’t help it! I am too sensitive!”
XV
“How Happy Could I Be with Either”
Madame Dambreuse, in her boudoir, between her niece and Miss John, was listening to M. Roque as he described the severe military duties he had been forced to perform.
She was biting her lips, and appeared to be in pain.
“Oh! ’tis nothing! it will pass away!”
And, with a gracious air:
“We are going to have an acquaintance of yours at dinner with us—Monsieur Moreau.”
Louise gave a start.
“Oh! we’ll only have a few intimate friends there—amongst others, Alfred de Cisy.”
And she spoke in terms of high praise about his manners, his personal appearance, and especially his moral character.
Madame Dambreuse was nearer to a correct estimate of the state of affairs than she imagined; the Vicomte was contemplating marriage. He said so to Martinon, adding that Mademoiselle Cécile was certain to like him, and that her parents would accept him.
To warrant him in going so far as to confide to another his intentions on the point, he ought to have satisfactory information with regard to her dowry. Now Martinon had a suspicion that Cécile was M. Dambreuse’s natural daughter; and it is probable that it would have been a very strong step on his part to ask for her hand at any risk. Such audacity, of course, was not unaccompanied by danger; and for this reason Martinon had, up to the present, acted in a way that could not compromise him. Besides, he did not see how he could well get rid of the aunt. Cisy’s confidence induced him to make up his mind; and he had formally made his proposal to the banker, who, seeing no obstacle to it, had just informed Madame Dambreuse about the matter.
Cisy presently made his appearance. She arose and said:
“You have forgotten us. Cécile, shake hands!”
At the same moment Frederick entered the room.
“Ha! at last we have found you again!” exclaimed Père Roque. “I called with Cécile on you three times this week!”
Frederick had carefully avoided them. He pleaded by way of excuse that he spent all his days beside a wounded comrade.
For a long time, however, a heap of misfortunes had happened to him, and he tried to invent stories to explain his conduct. Luckily the guests arrived in the midst of his explanation. First of all M. Paul de Grémonville, the diplomatist whom he met at the ball; then Fumichon, that manufacturer whose conservative zeal had scandalised him one evening. After them came the old Duchesse de Montreuil Nantua.
But two loud voices in the anteroom reached his ears. They were that of M. de Nonancourt, an old beau with the air of a mummy preserved
