De Meneval pulled from his pocket a glittering string of diamonds
“This is the diamond necklace I gave Léontine on our marriage. Of course, I could not afford it, but I was in love with her—I’m more in love with her now—and I gave her what would please her, without counting the cost.”
Papa Bouchard gasped. “And Léontine—does she know of this?”
De Meneval shook his head. “You see, when I bought this necklace for forty thousand francs the jeweller showed me at the same time an exact copy of it in paste—seventy-five francs. He told me when he sold a necklace like this he usually sold a counterfeit, for emergencies—you know. I bought the seventy-five franc necklace, too—and I didn’t mention it to Léontine. I think all the philosophers, beginning with the Egyptian school of something or other B. C., down through the Greeks and the Romans to Kant and Schopenhauer, agree that it is not philosophic for a married man to tell everything to his wife. So I never told Léontine about this imitation necklace, but kept it for an emergency, as the jeweller—a married man—advised me. To-night, when I saw I was in a tight place and had to come to you, I quietly slipped the paste necklace into the case, which we keep in our strong-box, and put thereal one into my pocket. I came within an ace of being caught by Léontine, though. The dear girl entered the room a minute afterward and asked me to get out her diamond necklace—she was going to the opera with some friends of hers—and off she’s gone, glittering with paste, and as innocent as a lamb, while here is the real thing.”
Papa Bouchard was staggered for a minute or two. Then he said: “So you expected me to turn amateur pawnbroker for your benefit?”
“Well,” replied de Meneval, stroking his moustache, “I should not have put it in that brutally frank fashion myself, but if you don’t care to act the amateur pawnbroker, I shall be obliged to take it to the professionals.”
“No, no, no,” cried Papa Bouchard. He really was fond of Léontine, and didn’t mean to risk her diamonds. Nevertheless, there was a stand-and-deliverair about the whole transaction which vexed him inexpressibly. He sat silent for a while and so did de Meneval.
Papa Bouchard, for all that he had been hectored by a woman all his life, was yet no fool. He saw that de Meneval had him in a trap, and reasoned out the whole thing inside of two minutes.
“Now, Monsieur le Capitaine,” he said, presently, “I see where we stand. I will not lend you the money out of Léontine’s income—but I will lend it to you myself. I shall keep this necklace until the money is paid. Meanwhile, I shall go out to see this place—the Pigeon House—and judge for myself all these facts that you allege.”
“Do!” cried the cheerful reprobate, with a grin. “Perhaps you’ll like it and get into the habit of going there.”
“And perhaps,” replied Papa Bouchard, “I may not like it, and you may have your income reduced if youpersist in going there. And then—when the whole transaction is concluded and the money repaid, I shall disclose every particular of it to Léontine.”
“By all means!” De Meneval was actually laughing in Papa Bouchard’s face. “I’ll deny every word of it, of course, and call for proof. I’ll tell Léontine you tried to persuade me to go out there with you and I refused. I’ll sayyougave the suppers, and I’ll bring twenty of the best fellows in the regiment to swear to it—and you’ll see who comes out ahead inthatgame.”
Papa Bouchard was so horrified at the cold-blooded villainy of this that he could hardly speak for a minute. But he refused to take the threat seriously, and demanding the bill, which de Meneval promptly produced, said, stiffly:
“You will hear from me in a day or two.”
“And how about the advance?”asked de Meneval, “I should like about a thousand francs in cash.”
Papa Bouchard put up his eye-glass and surveyed Captain de Meneval all over, which scrutiny was borne with the greatest coolness by the brazen captain of artillery.
“You see,” continued de Meneval, “the story is very liable to get into the newspapers—extremelyliable, I may say. It will be something like this—that Monsieur Bouchard held Captain and Madame de Meneval so tight that they were compelled to let Monsieur Bouchard have Madame’s diamond necklace for a small loan—and the newspapers will probably make it out to be Léontine’s wardrobe and my watch and chain besides.”
De Meneval paused—the fellow knew when to stop. Monsieur Bouchard, swelling with rage, paused too—and then, taking out his cheque book, angrily wrote a cheque for a thousand francs, which he handed Captain deMeneval in exchange for a sheaf of bills produced by the captain.
“Before paying another franc, I shall go out to the Pigeon House and investigate the whole business,” said Monsieur Bouchard, savagely.
“Ta, ta!” called out the graceless dog of a captain
“Ta, ta!” called out the graceless dog of a captain, picking up his hat. “Remember, you are on your good behavior. One single indiscretion at the Pigeon House and I’ll telegraph the whole story to Mademoiselle Bouchard, and then——”
Papa Bouchard simply sat and swelled the more with rage at the unabashed front of this captain of artillery—but he was galvanized into motion by a light tap on the door and a musical voice calling:
“Are you in, Papa Bouchard?”
Although all the fulminations of Monsieur Bouchard had failed to affectCaptain de Meneval, the sound of that voice flurried him considerably. For it was Léontine’s, and de Meneval had no particular desire for an interview with her under Papa Bouchard’s basilisk eye. He turned quite pale, did this robust captain, and muttered:
“I don’t want to be caught here.”
Papa Bouchard smiled in a superior manner—he rather liked the notion of de Meneval being caught there—and called out to Léontine:
“Come in.”
M. Bouchard’s hat, cape-greatcoat and umbrella lay on a chair where he had placed them on coming in. Without so much as saying, “By your leave,” de Meneval slung the greatcoat round him, clapped Papa Bouchard’s hat on his head, seized the umbrella in such a way as to hide his face, and with his own hat under his arm opened the door to the lobby and darted past Léontine, nearly knocking her down.
Léontine, wearing an evening gown, a long and beautiful white mantle, and a chiffon scarf over her head, entered, somewhat discomposed by her encounter.
“What a very rude man that was who pushed by me so suddenly!” she said, advancing. “Some of your tiresome clients, Papa Bouchard, and I order you not to have that creature here again.” And she ran forward and kissed Papa Bouchard on his bald head.
Now, it was plain that this pretty Léontine took liberties with her guardian, godfather and trustee, and also that Papa Bouchard liked these liberties. It was in vain that he tried to assume a stern air with Léontine. She pinched his ear when he scolded, drew caricatures of him when he frowned, and when at last he was forced to smile, as he always was, perched herself on the arm of his chair and declined to be evicted. And shewas so very pretty! The French have a saying that the devil himself was handsome when he was young. Léontine de Meneval had more than the mere beauty of youth, of form, of color. She was the embodiment of graceful gaiety. She looked like one of those brilliant white butterflies whose lives are spent dancing in the sun. The great and glorious dowry of love, of youth, of beauty, of health, of happiness was hers. Her entering the room was like a breath of daffodils in spring. She was a most beguiling creature. It was a source of wonder and congratulation to Papa Bouchard that this charming girl did not succeed in bamboozling all of her own income out of him and all of his as well.
She looked like one of those brilliant white butterflies whose lives are spent dancing in the sun
Having kissed him, pinched his ear, and otherwise agreeably maltreatedher trustee, Léontine looked round the new apartment with dancing eyes.
“Well,” she cried, laughing, “I see how it is. You couldn’t stand the Rue Clarisse another day or hour. Did anybody ever tell you, Papa Bouchard, that you had a vein of—a vein of—what shall I call it?—a taste for the wine of life in you?”
“Nobody ever did,” replied Papa Bouchard, trying to be stern.
“Then I tell you so. And look at these pictures—oh, oh!”
Léontine covered her face with her chiffon scarf, to avoid the sight of the young ladies pointing skyward with their toes.
“And I wonder what Aunt Céleste will say when she sees them,” continued this impish Léontine.
“She won’t see them. They will be removed to-morrow,” hastily put in Papa Bouchard.
“You’d better, you dear old thing, if you value your life. I shall have totell Victor about this. How he will laugh! I do all I can to make him laugh and to amuse him when he is with me, for it issodull for him when he is obliged to stay at Melun. When his regimental duties are over he has nothing to do in the evening but to sit in his quarters and study up ballistics, as he calls it, and look at my picture by way of refreshment.”
Papa Bouchard sniffed. He commonly sniffed at the mention of Captain de Meneval’s name.
“But,” continued Léontine, trying to curl Papa Bouchard’s scanty hair, using her pretty fingers for curling tongs, “he won’t be so lonely now at Melun, for his old chum, Major Fallière, is stationed there, too, and he and Victor are like brothers. You know, dear Papa Bouchard, that you yourself admitted Major Fallière’s friendship to be a letter of recommendation to any man. He is called the Pink of Military Propriety, and if Victor led thelarky life you so unjustly suspect him of, he couldn’t be friends with Major Fallière, who is positively straitlaced.”
“I can’t say I ever saw a really straitlaced major,” replied Papa Bouchard.
“And I have not yet seen this dear old P. M. P. He was in Algiers when Victor and I were married—and he has been so little in Paris since his return that he has not yet had a chance to call. But he has sent me word by Victor that he already loves me, and I hope to see him in a few days, for Victor has promised to let me come out to Melun and dine at the Pigeon House.”
“The Pigeon House!”
“Yes. Why not? You’ll be going there yourself, I dare say, now that you have eloped from Aunt Céleste. Oh, you’ll be a desperate character in time, I have no doubt. I see it in your eye. Victor and I, though, shall keep watch on you, if you go too far and too fast!”
This was a nice way for a ward to talk to her trustee—and such a trustee as Monsieur Bouchard! Therefore Papa Bouchard called up his most resolute air of disapproval, and said:
“I am afraid the Pigeon House is hardly a proper place for you to go to, Léontine.”
“If I thought that I should have been out there long ago,” responded this sprightly imp. “But, unluckily, it’s perfectly proper.”
“I wish,” replied Papa Bouchard, “you could get one single serious idea into that head of yours.”
“I have a great many serious ideas,” said Léontine, suddenly assuming an unwonted air of gravity, and leaving her perch on the arm of Papa Bouchard’s chair for a seat directly facing him. “What would you say if I told you that I am taking a deep and real interest in practical sociological questions, such as giving employment to the deserving workers?”
“I should say you were at least reaching the development I have always wished for you. But I hope you are confining your experiments to giving work only. The mere giving of money tends to pauperize. The giving of work is the intelligent mode of benefiting a man or a woman.”
“That’s it precisely,” cried Léontine, instantly losing her air of gravity, and jumping up to kiss the bald spot on the top of Papa Bouchard’s head. Then she resumed her chair and her serious manner simultaneously. “That’s what I knew you’d say, dear Papa Bouchard. I had your approval in mind all the time. It came about in this way,” continued Léontine, solemnly. “There is a very worthy man—a Pole, Putzki by name—who is one of the best tailors in Paris. I became very much interested in this man; likewise in his jackets, coats and riding habits. I have been to his shop several times and talked with him. The man is an exilefrom his native country. How sad that is! And he cannot go back. He is very deserving and has a family to support. He doesn’t ask for charity, but I gave him——”
“All the money you had,” hastily and angrily interjected Papa Bouchard.
“Not at all,” replied Léontine, with dignity. “I had learned better than that. I have not given him a franc. But I ordered, out of pure charity and good will to a fellow creature, five walking gowns, three jackets, two long coats, a yachting costume and a couple of riding habits.”
Papa Bouchard’s mouth opened wide, but no sound came forth. Léontine, taking advantage of his amazed silence, kept on, rapidly:
“Then there is another deserving case—Louise, a milliner and modiste. She has a husband who squanders her money on his pleasures. If Victor did that I think it would kill me. Like Putzki she does not ask money, butwork. Out of sympathy for her, I have had her make me four ball gowns, nine visiting and house costumes, some little négligées and things, and about eighteen hats. And here are the bills.”
With this Léontine drew out two huge bills and thrust them into Papa Bouchard’s scowling face. Not only was he annoyed with Léontine for her extravagance, but he was conscious that she had fooled him. He sat perfectly still and silent, glaring into Léontine’s serious, pretty countenance—not so serious, though, but that Papa Bouchard saw the shadow of a smile on her rose-lipped mouth.
“And you expect to pay those bills out of your allowance, I presume?” said Papa Bouchard, sarcastically, after a moment.
“You flatter me,” replied Léontine. “I always knew I was a good financier, but to expect me to pay such bills as these out of my meagre allowance isto credit me with the financial genius of a Rothschild.”
“Then they will go unpaid!” cried Papa Bouchard, determinedly. This assault on him, following hard on Captain de Meneval’s, was rather more than he could stand. Léontine did not know it, but the defeat Papa Bouchard had just suffered at the hands of that good-looking scapegrace, her husband, had hardened his heart against her and her milliner’s and tailor’s bills. However, she was not easily frightened. She only tapped her little foot, smiled loftily and said:
“But theymustbe paid!”
Papa Bouchard, who had no more voice than a crow, began to hum a tune and to turn over the leaves of a scientific journal that lay on the table before him. A pause followed. Then Léontine said again, very softly and very determinedly:
“And theywillbe paid.”
“How, may I ask?” inquired PapaBouchard, whirling round on her. Léontine, throwing aside her chiffon scarf, which she had held round her bare, white neck, showed a string of diamonds, as she thought them to be—paste, Papa Bouchard knew them to be—and said:
“My wedding gift from Victor. They are worth forty thousand francs. I can easily raise ten thousand on them.”
Papa Bouchard lay back in his chair, absolutely stunned. So, both of them were for turning the necklace into cash! And what scandal would be precipitated if Léontine carried out her intention! The necklace would be discovered to be paste, and Léontine would naturally be deeply incensed against her husband; Papa Bouchard was that already, but he really loved his little Léontine, and the thought of trouble between her and her husband disturbed him.
“Does Captain de Meneval know of these bills?” he asked, significantly.
Léontine hung her head. “No,” she faltered, “and that is the part which distresses me. Victor has been soveryprudent—has no bills, poor fellow—he has no amusements away from me—and I—I have been so selfish—” Léontine’s eyes were bright with tears.
“Does Captain de Meneval know of these bills?” he asked significantly
“Don’t make yourself unhappy about Victor being too prudent. He need never give you any anxiety on that point,” was Papa Bouchard’s unfeeling reply.
There was a moment’s silence. PapaBouchard, who had a shrewd head for business, was rapidly cogitating the best thing co do under the circumstances. Léontine, who had no head for business at all, was wondering how she could keep Victor from noticing the absence of the necklace. She had just concluded to fall into a state of great weakness and prostration, thus preventing her from going into society, when she received something like a galvanic shock, for there, before her eyes, Papa Bouchard was holding up the exact counterpart of her necklace. The two necklaces made a blaze of light.
“Where did you get it?” she gasped, pointing to the glittering thing in Papa Bouchard’s hand.
Now, Papa Bouchard was a clever man, as men are clever, but he was not so clever as a woman. A brilliant scheme had flashed into his mind—he would produce the real necklace, tell Léontine it was paste, and so make sure that she would not take it to thepawnbroker; and he could manage both de Meneval and Léontine equally well with the paste necklace. He did not much fancy having the responsibility of so many diamonds as the real one contained. But he had not foreseen this direct and embarrassing question of Léontine’s. He looked blank for a moment or two, and then, having no better answer ready, replied testily:
“I wish you wouldn’t ask such questions, Léontine. Of course I came by it honestly.”
“Of course—of course,” cried Léontine, jumping up. “Does Aunt Céleste know of this?”
“N—n—no,” faltered Papa Bouchard. This was another facer for him.
Léontine had not the slightest doubt that Papa Bouchard could give a perfectly rational and correct account of how he came by the necklace—it was probably the property of some client—but seeing a fine chance to hold PapaBouchard up to obloquy and to lecture him, she promptly determined to give him the benefit of her pretended suspicions. She therefore rose with great dignity, gathered her drapery about her, and looking significantly at Papa Bouchard, said:
“You will pardon me for saying that this has a most singular appearance, and I shall lose no time in informing Aunt Céleste.”
Papa Bouchard turned pale. Was ever such a diabolical trap laid for an innocent man? He was not at all sure, if he gave the true account of how he came by the stones, that Captain de Meneval would not carry out his threat and deny the whole business. The fellow had actually laughed while he was making the threat, and seemed to regard it as an excellent joke to impair the peace and honor of a respectable elderly gentleman. Papa Bouchard got up, sat down again, and groaned.
“Léontine,” he said, to that professedlyindignant young woman, “you don’t understand.”
“No, Idon’tunderstand,” replied Léontine, with unkind emphasis.
“It was this way—I was out at St. Germains the other day—” Papa Bouchard was floundering hopelessly, but a bright thought struck him—“the day of the meeting of the Society of French Antiquarians. Very interesting time we had—several specimens of the paleozoic age were found——”
“And this match to my necklace was among them? Fie, Papa Bouchard!”
“Not at all. Will you let me speak? I say I was out at St. Germains for the meeting of the Society of French Antiquarians. The curator of the museum is a great friend of mine—he has an old mother—finest old lady you ever saw—eighty years old, bedridden and stone blind, but as young as a daisy, full of life and talk—it’s a treat to see her. My friend wanted abirthday present for her, and I had seen this necklace in a shop window in the Avenue de l’Opéra—and I proposed to—to—to—” Papa Bouchard faltered.
“Buy it for an old lady, eighty years old and bedridden? Oh, Papa Bouchard, try again!”
“Léontine,” said Papa Bouchard, sternly, “I don’t like these flippant interruptions. I did not say—I never meant to say that I proposed to buy a diamond necklace for an old lady, bedridden and eighty years of age. It happened there were spectacles of all kinds made and kept at the same shop—and I went and got a pair of Scotch pebble glasses, at fifty francs——”
“But you said she was stone blind?”
“What if I did? I didn’t say I got the glasses for her. But as I see you won’t let me tell you the story of the necklace, I shall simply keep it tomyself. As a matter of fact, they are not diamonds, they are paste.”
Léontine, taking the real stones in her hand, examined them carefully. Then, laying them against the necklace around her own milk-white throat, she remarked: “I see they are. Paste, pure and simple.”
Papa Bouchard could hardly suppress a smile at this, but he did.
“Very well. They are paste, and they cost seventy-five francs. Now, I will make you a proposition. I propose that I shall look into these bills and see what arrangement can be made with Putzki and Louise, and reach some basis of settlement whereby I may be able, by making a series of small payments out of your income, to get rid of them. Meanwhile, I am afraid to trust you with your own necklace—you will always be trying to raise money on it. So I shall hand you over this paste one, which no one but a jeweller can tell from the realone. You will give me the real one—and I will hold it until your bills are paid. Then I will return it to you. I suppose you don’t wish your husband to know of this, and I will agree to keep it from him as long as you keep out of debt. But if you ever transgress in this way again I shall tell him the whole story.”
Léontine listened to this with the utmost gravity, and then replied: “You are a very clever man, Papa Bouchard, but you will find your little Léontine a very clever woman—too clever to put her head in the noose you have so kindly held open for her. I sha’n’t dream of giving up my necklace for anything less than a cheque out of my own money for the payment in full of these bills. I should be willing to take the paste necklace temporarily until the bills are paid. After you have returned it to me I sha’n’t be in the least afraid of your telling Victor, for if you do I shall tell AuntCéleste all your tales about the bedridden old lady and the trip to St. Germains and the widow——”
“What widow?” asked Papa Bouchard, forgetful for a moment of the lady he had met in the railway carriage two days in succession.
“The prim little widow you went to Verneuil with. My maid happened to be on the same train and saw you helping her out, and heard you say to her you were going to St. Germains to-day—and by the way, I happen to know youdidgo to St. Germains to-day.”
What a story was this to hatch about the most correct old gentleman in Paris! Papa Bouchard simply glared at Léontine, but that merry young woman was smiling and dimpling, as if debts and duns and trips to Verneuil and diamond necklaces were quite the ordinary ingredients of life. The hen that hatched a cockatrice was no more puzzled and dismayed than was Papa Bouchard at the vagaries of his ward.
“Well,” cried he, after a pause, determined to put a bold front on the matter, “what if I did find a lady in the same railway carriage with me, going to Verneuil? I hadn’t hired the whole train, or even a whole carriage. And what if she was a widow, and good-looking! And suppose to-day, in the pursuit of science, I go to St. Germains and quite by accident I find the same lady in the compartment with me? What does that mean except a series of accidents?”
“Yes, a series of accidents,” replied Léontine, with an arch glance. The minx seemed to have no more conscience about teasing poor Papa Bouchard than had her rattlebrain of a husband. “It is remarkable that accidents like these always happen in cycles. I should be willing to wager that a third accident is now brewing, and you will see that prim little widow again before the week is out. I shouldn’t be surprised if this changeof quarters had something to do with it!”
“Léontine!” said Papa Bouchard, indignantly, but that heedless young person only laughed and said:
“I’ll tell Victor that. How the dear boy will laugh! The fact is, I don’t know whether I can let Victor associate with you or not—you might lead him off into your own primrose path of dalliance with widows!”
Was ever anything so exasperating! Papa Bouchard ground his teeth—he had a great mind to throw over the whole business of Léontine’s money and her affairs, only he knew it would please her too well. His grim meditations were interrupted by Léontine tapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Now, will you hand me over the cheque for the whole amount of those bills—six thousand francs—or must I take this”—touching the paste necklace round her throat—“to the pawnbroker?”
“You certainly can’t expect me togive you a cheque until I have looked into these swindling bills,” answered Papa Bouchard.
“I certainly do,” tartly said Léontine, “and you will either hand me over immediately a cheque for six thousand francs, or I will drive to Aunt Céleste’s before I go to the opera—and I think you’ll have an early visit from her in the morning. I shall tell her about this mysterious necklace, and the pretty widow you have no doubt been running after for at least six months——”
“I never saw her in my life until yesterday,” cried Monsieur Bouchard.
“So you say. Perhaps you have been pursuing her for a year.”
Monsieur Bouchard tore his hair, but there was no help for him. After an angry pause, he sat down, wrote out a cheque for six thousand francs, which he slammed down on the table, and Léontine picked up with a joyful cry. And then, with a desperate attemptat an authoritative manner, he said, sternly,
“Pray understand, Léontine, that I reserve the right to tell your husband all the circumstances of this affair if I choose to. I am not intimidated by your threat to tell my sister some cock-and-bull story aboutme.”
Léontine reflected a moment, her pretty head on her hand.
“Do you know, dear Papa Bouchard,” she said, after a while, “that you and I are engaged in what the Americans call a game of bluff?”
“Don’t know anything about the Americans. Don’t know what bluff is.”
“Oh, yes, you do—you know the thing, although you may not recognize the name. But you are a good soul, Papa Bouchard, and Victor and Idobother you a good deal; but only say no more of this matter—about Putzki and Louise—and don’t tell Victor, and I’ll not tell Aunt Céleste, and everything will come perfectly right.”
As Léontine spoke she unclasped her necklace, kissed it, and with a gesture of scorn put on the real necklace, saying to herself: “I never thought I should come to this.”
And then came a loud rat-tat at the door, and in walked Captain de Meneval again. He carried Monsieur Bouchard’s impedimenta, with which he had so unceremoniously made off. Both he and Léontine looked thoroughly disconcerted at meeting each other. De Meneval thought she had gone away. Léontine blushed guiltily, and had barely enough presence of mind to cover up the necklace lying on the table with Papa Bouchard’s scientific journal.
“Ah, good-evening, Papa Bouchard!” cried this arch hypocrite of an artillery captain, as if he had not seen Monsieur Bouchard half an hour before. “I came to return your umbrella and coat. Thanks very much for lending them to me in an emergency. Why, little girl,I thought you were on your way to the opera?”
“I am just going,” answered Léontine, moving toward the door.
“One moment!” cried Papa Bouchard, waving his arm authoritatively. These two scapegraces had used him for their own purposes that night, had made game of him, and had threatened to discover a mare’s nest to Mademoiselle Bouchard and had got seven thousand francs out of him in cold cash. Now, however, he would take his revenge. “Wait,” he said to Léontine, who returned reluctantly to her former place.
Monsieur Bouchard, assuming the attitude and tone with which he addressed a couple of criminals in the pursuit of his professional duties, then continued:
“This is a very auspicious opportunity for me to speak to you both, in each other’s presence, with a view to your mutual reform. Observe theword; I use it advisedly.” He paused. Léontine trembled with apprehension, while de Meneval surreptitiously mopped his brow. “You have both of you been very extravagant—wasteful, I may say. Nothing that I have yet said has availed to stop the outgo of money far beyond your reasonable wants—soIthink. Now, I have come to the conclusion that in order for you to economize you must give up your apartment. You must leave Paris.”
Leave Paris!
De Meneval was not so stunned but that he could get up rather a ghastly laugh.
“Leave Paris! Ha, ha! That’s little enough to me, Papa Bouchard—Léontine and ballistics are all I want to make me happy anywhere—but Léontine—oh, I know she won’t go!”
“Won’t she, eh? Not to an inexpensive little cottage outside of Paris—withinstriking distance of Melun, so you may go back and forth—averyinexpensive cottage?”
“Well, if that’s your game,” cried de Meneval, savagely, “there are plenty of cottages to be had at Melun. Our veterinarian has just given up his cottage—three rooms and a dog kennel. That’s cheap enough. Shall I take it to-morrow for Captain and Madame de Meneval?”
“You are trifling, Monsieur le Capitaine,” coolly answered Papa Bouchard. “You understand perfectly well what I mean.”
“But, Papa Bouchard,” put in Léontine, faintly, “whileIdon’t object to the cottage, it would be cruel to Victor to force him away from Paris. It is so dull, anyway, at Melun. The only recreation he has is when he comes to Paris. Poor, poor Victor!”
Léontine was almost weeping—de Meneval was swearing between his teeth. Papa Bouchard was waving hisarm about, serene in the consciousness of power.
“I do not say you are to leave Paris to-night, or even to-morrow; perhaps a week—possibly a month—may be given you. But you are both too fond of gaieties, of clothes, of suppers and other dissipated things, and there are too many jewellers’ shops in Paris.” This thrust caused both of the culprits to quake. “So you must go to some retired place and economize.”
“I see,” replied de Meneval, who was thoroughly exasperated. “Having yourself practically run away from a quiet and respectable locality to these gay quarters, with young ladies of the ballet on every hand—” de Meneval pointed angrily to the red-and-gold young ladies on the walls—“now you wish to send my poor little wife off to some hole of a village, where one may exist but not live. I don’t speak of myself—Idon’t care. It’s for her.”
“Very well,” answered Papa Bouchard, maliciously. “You may make that hole of a village a paradise steeped in dreamlike splendor to Léontine by your devoted and lover-like attentions to her. You can live over your honeymoon. Won’t you like that, Léontine?”
“Y—yes,” replied Léontine, dolefully.
“Some pretty rural place—all birds and flowers, eh? And a little dog. Doesn’t the prospect charm you?”
“Yes—only—for Victor——”
“Haven’t you just heard Victor say that all he needs to be perfectly happy are you and ballistics? So I suppose, Monsieur de Meneval, you will be revelling in rapture.”
“I suppose so,” replied de Meneval, gloomily. “Come, Léontine, shall I put you in the carriage? You won’t have many chances of going to the opera, poor child, after this.”
Léontine rose and said, coldly,“Good-night, Papa Bouchard.” There was no tweaking of his ear, no patting of his bald head this time. They went out like two sulky and disappointed children.
They went out like two sulky and disappointed children
Papa Bouchard remained chuckling to himself. He had those two naughty young creatures in the hollow of his hand—it would be a good while before they would dare to be saucy to him—andthat little cottage in the suburbs was a fine idea. Strange it had not occurred to him before.
He seated himself in his easychair and began to review the events of his first day of liberty. His mind went back to the point where he had been interrupted by de Meneval’s entrance—the point where the dear little bashful widow had appeared in his mind’s eye. If he had been in the Rue Clarisse he would never even have dared to think of Madame Vernet, for his sister could actually read his thoughts. But here, in this jolly bachelor place, he could think about widows all he liked. And shutting his eyes the better to recall that slim, shrinking, gray-gowned figure, he opened them to see Madame Vernet quietly walking into the room, without knocking and quite as if she belonged there. She advanced to the table on one side of the room, laid her lace parasol on it and proceeded to remove her long gloves, butstopped in the midst of the process to rearrange a chair and to set straight a picture—one of Monsieur Bouchard’s.
“This is very comfortable,” she said, musingly, “but I can improve it—when I am settled here.”
Papa Bouchard listened as if in a dream. He had not progressed so far as that. And then Madame Vernet turning and seeing him, uttered a faint shriek, as if she had seen a snake instead of a human being, and ran—but not toward the door.
“My dear Madame Vernet, pray do not be alarmed. It is only I—Monsieur Bouchard,” cried Papa Bouchard, striving to reassure her.
“Oh! is it you? Forgive me for being so agitated, but I amsoeasily frightened!” panted Madame Vernet. “Men always frighten me—I am the most timid woman in the world!”
“So I see,” tenderly replied Papa Bouchard. He was standing quite close to Madame Vernet now, and she hadclasped his arm and looked nervously about her, as if she expected another man to spring out of the fireplace or down from the ceiling.
“But when I saw it was only you, all my fears vanished,” she continued. “And will you tell me to what I am indebted for the honor and pleasure of this visit?”
“A question I was just asking myself. This is my new apartment.”
“I beg pardon,” replied Madame Vernet, “but it ismynew apartment. I only moved into it to-day.”
“And, Madame, I only moved into it to-day.”
“It is number nine, fourth floor.”
“No, Madame, it is number five, third floor.”
“Ah,” cried Madame Vernet. “I see. My apartment is directly over this, and corresponds with it exactly. I did not go up high enough, and I am not quite familiar with the surroundings. How absurd!” and she laughed,showing the prettiest teeth in the world.
“How delightful!” replied Monsieur Bouchard, gallantly.
“And how singular! This is the third time in three days we have met by accident.”
An uncomfortable recollection of Léontine’s speech about accidents of this sort occurring in cycles flashed through Monsieur Bouchard’s brain, but he dismissed the thought with energy. He rather relished accidents that brought about meetings with a woman as winning, as charming, as elegant as Madame Vernet; and then there was that deliciously intoxicating feeling of independence—no need to cut the interview short, no labored explanation to give Mademoiselle Céleste. Monsieur Bouchard was his own man now—for the first time, at fifty-four years of age. So he smiled benevolently, and said:
“I wish I might ask you to sitdown, but at least you will grant me permission to call on you.”
“With pleasure,” replied Madame Vernet. “And since you won’t let me sit down—which, of course, wouldn’t be proper, and I wouldn’t commit the smallest impropriety for a million francs—at least let me walk about and look at your charming furnishings.”
Papa Bouchard made a heartfelt apology for the red-and-gold young ladies on the walls, who evidently shocked Madame Vernet extremely. He said he meant to take them down the next day. Madame Vernet replied with gentle severity that he ought to take them down that night. However, she went into raptures over “Kittens at Play” and “Socrates and His Pupils,” which gave Papa Bouchard a high idea of her intellectuality.
But in the midst of a learned dissertation on “The Coliseum by Moonlight” Madame Vernet’s eyes fell on the glittering paste necklace, whichMonsieur Bouchard had left lying on the table. She picked it up gently—she did everything gently—and playfully clasping it round her neck, cried:
“How charming! I won’t ask you for whom this is intended; for a sister—a niece, perhaps. Lucky girl!”
“Indeed, it is not intended for anyone,” replied Monsieur Bouchard. “It is of trifling value—paste, at seventy-five francs to buy, and would sell for nothing.”
“Nevertheless, it is very pretty,” said Madame Vernet, looking at herself coquettishly in the mirror. And then, apparently forgetting all about the necklace, she confided to Monsieur Bouchard that she was so nervous at living alone—the only thing that reconciled her was that she had an uncle and an aunt living in the neighborhood who would watch over her. Monsieur Bouchard tried to reassure her, but Madame Vernet declined to be reassured. Her timidity was constitutional—she shouldnever be courageous as other women, and so protesting, she gathered up her parasol and gloves, and with blushing apologies for her intrusion and a bashful invitation to Monsieur Bouchard to return her unique visit, made for the door.
Monsieur Bouchard tried to reassure her—her timidity was constitutional
Monsieur Bouchard was charmed, flattered, tickled and flustered beyondexpression, but he was likewise terrified at the thought that Madame Vernet had evidently forgotten that she had the necklace clasped round her throat and was going off with it. Paste though it was, Monsieur Bouchard had no mind to let it go out of his own hands. He followed her to the door, saying, “Madame, you have probably forgotten——”
Monsieur Bouchard sank or rather fell into a chair
“Oh, no, I haven’t,” smilingly replied Madame Vernet; “I know my own apartment now—it is number nine.”
“But—but—you have inadvertently—er—a—” Poor Monsieur Bouchard mopped his forehead in his agony.
“Yes, quite inadvertently entered your apartment. Oh, how alarmed I was when I first saw you! But you were so kind. Forgive me, and don’t forget your promise to call. Good-bye.”
And just as Monsieur Bouchard hadmade up his mind to ask for the necklace she flitted out of the door.
Monsieur Bouchard sank, or rather fell, into a chair. His head was in a whirl. He felt as if the events of that day were beginning to be a little too much for him. Just at that moment Pierre appeared from no one could exactly say where.
“Come, now,” said that functionary, in a tone of what Monsieur Bouchard would have thought brazen familiarity the day before, “I know all about it, I saw the whole transaction; remember, Monsieur, we are pals now. She can’t get money on it any more than Madame de Meneval can, and she’ll be sure to turn up again. Oh, you’ll come out all right, Monsieur. Cheer up. We’ll live a merry life, and after all, it is something to be away from that dreary old hole in theRue Clarisse. Just listen, if you please.”
Pierre ran to the window, threw it wide open, and the strains of rag time music from the music halls filled the room.
“Everything goes in rag time at this jolly place,” cried Pierre—and then that staid, sober and decorous valet of thirty years’ service, cut the pigeon wing, twirled around on one leg, with the other stuck stiffly out like a ballet dancer’s, and kissing his hand in the direction of Madame Vernet’s apartment, cried, “Oh, we’re a gay pair of boys! We mean to see life! And no peaching on each other!” And with ineffable impudence, he winked at Monsieur Bouchard.