Chapter III
ANYONE who saw Monsieur Bouchard a week after his adventures at the Pigeon House would have said that the excellent man had grown ten years older in that time. For he had endured more cares, anxieties, worries, vexations, apprehensions and palpitations in that one week in the Rue Bassano than in all his thirty years in the Rue Clarisse. Not that Monsieur Bouchard had the slightest desire to go back to his old life. Not at all. In the Rue Bassano he at least lived; in the Rue Clarisse he had merely vegetated.
In the first place, on his arrival at his apartment shortly after midnight on that fateful evening spent at Melun hehad been unable to find out anything at all about Madame Vernet. Theconciergehad gone to bed when he got home, and he dared not disturb the whole house at that hour. He spent a sleepless night, with Pierre snoring peacefully in the next room. The fellow had not come home till two o’clock in the morning. Monsieur Bouchard utilized the watches of the night in making up a story to tell theconciergeto account for the enquiries he meant to make concerning Madame Vernet. Aconcierge, he well knew, is the nearest approach to an omniscient being on this planet. It was comparatively easy to concoct a tale that would go on four legs, in the expressive phrase of his countrymen. Monsieur Bouchard was vastly pleased with his own shrewdness when he paused to think of the facility with which he invented his story. But to get it accepted at its face value—ah, that was another thing.
At six o’clock in the morning hetiptoed down stairs in his dressing gown and slippers. Theconcierge, yawning, was just opening the shutters in her little den.
“Can you tell me, my good woman,” said Monsieur Bouchard, in a manner calculated to allay any suspicions theconciergemight have—if anything can allay the suspicions of aconcierge—“whether Madame Vernet arrived here last night—in fact, if she is in the house at present? I ask because I promised her aunt and uncle out at Melun last evening to escort her in, and by some accident we became separated in the railway station, and I am considering what apology I shall make to her aunt and uncle—very worthy people at Melun.”
Theconciergelooked at poor Monsieur Bouchard, not with suspicion, but with certainty in her eye. The very expression of her face called him a liar and a villain, as she replied, coolly:
“Madame Vernetdidcome in lastnight and left the house at five o’clock this morning, to visit her aunt and uncle at Châlons.”
By which Monsieur Bouchard, who was no fool, found out three things: first, that Madame Vernet had been beforehand with theconcierge; second, that Madame Vernet did not have an aunt and uncle at Châlons, although she seemed to have uncles and aunts in every town, village and hamlet in France; and third, that wherever she might be she certainly was not at Châlons.
He spent the next three days in vain efforts to find out Madame Vernet’s whereabouts. Theconciergehad evidently been thoroughly bought and coached, and would absolutely tell nothing. Madame Vernet had taken her apartment by the month, and had paid in advance. Theconciergeknew no more. Not even a ten-franc piece could screw any additional information out of her.
Papa Bouchard began to feel a little frightened. What would happen if it should come out in the newspapers, as Léontine had threatened? There were journalists enough in Paris ready to jump at such a story as Léontine had hinted at. There was that Marsac, and the remarkable tale he had concocted about a bogus fortune—Papa Bouchard recalled at least a dozen instances that were frightfully like what he apprehended. When this thought occurred to him he bit the pillows in his anguish—it was in the middle of one of his sleepless nights. And what glee would those laughing devils of newspaper men have out of him! And how should he ever show his face in the Rue Clarisse? Monsieur Bouchard made up his mind that if ever the thing got into the newspapers he should emigrate to Madagascar.
Of course, Pierre knew all about it. Monsieur Bouchard had told him too much not to tell him more. Pierrewas only moderately sympathetic, which infuriated Monsieur Bouchard.
“At least,” cried the poor gentleman, “those two scamps, Léontine and de Meneval, are in as much trouble as I am.”
“But they have the necklace,” replied Pierre, “and it seems to me that Monsieur is in a jolly hole, with his necklaces and his widows, and all the rest of it.”
Monsieur Bouchard, at this, burst into a string of bad words that were very reprehensible, but perfectly natural to a man in his imminent circumstances.
However Pierre might choose to devil his master in private, in public he was unflinchingly loyal to him. In the first place, Léontine and de Meneval, each determined to force an explanation from Monsieur Bouchard, haunted the Rue Bassano, and when they did not come they wrote. It was easy enough to dispose of the frantic notesand letters, but when the two came—always separately—and Léontine wept and raved that she would and must see Papa Bouchard, and de Meneval swore and stormed to the same effect, Pierre was immovable. Monsieur was one day at Passy, another he was at Versailles, always on important business, and Pierre never had the least idea when he would be home. Thus, by unceasing vigilance and an unabashed front, Pierre managed to stave off an interview between his master and the de Menevals for the whole of a critical week.
Mademoiselle Bouchard was easier to manage. Pierre went to the Rue Clarisse daily, with a very acceptable tale about Monsieur Bouchard being so busy making the will of a rich old gentleman at Passy that he had no time for anything else; likewise, that he was finding the noise and commotion of the Rue Bassano so objectionable that he bitterly regretted having left the RueClarisse. This little romance took so well that Pierre improved on it by saying that Monsieur Bouchard was trying to sublet the apartment, so he could return to peace and quiet in the Rue Clarisse. Mademoiselle Bouchard was touched, charmed, delighted to hear this.
Not so Élise. She was not of a trusting or confiding nature. When Pierre turned up, late in the day, yawning, and still only half-awake, she did not believe in the least his account of being kept awake by the noises of the carts and carriages in the Rue Bassano. She boldly taxed him with leading a riotous life, which Pierre strenuously denied, and going to Mademoiselle Bouchard, actually wept over Élise’s want of confidence in him after thirty years of married life. Mademoiselle sharply rebuked Élise, and ordered her henceforth to believe everything Pierre told her. Élise made no reply to this beyondher usual sniff, but privately resolved the first day she had time to slip around to the Rue Bassano and interview theconcierge. She knew the ways ofconciergesas well as the ways of men.
For four days Monsieur Bouchard gave himself, body and bones, to the business of a private detective in trying to locate Madame Vernet. Vain effort! He of course expected to have to pay handsomely for the return of the paste necklace, but he valued his peace of mind more than money, and was ready enough to come down with some cash provided he could get hold of the necklace.
On the fifth day he was delighted, but scarcely surprised, to receive a letter from Madame Vernet saying that, as there seemed to be some complications concerning the necklace he had so generously and sweetly given her, and as she was a person of much delicacy of feeling, she was seriously thinking of returning it. Hecould address her at the Pigeon House at Melun.
Monsieur Bouchard replied by writing and flatly offering her five hundred francs, nearly six times the original value of the necklace. He himself took his letter out to the Pigeon House, and spent the entire evening there, on the chance that Madame Vernet might turn up. She did not, however. Next day he received a letter from her, all reproaches and hysterics; how could he offer her money!—her, the most disinterested, the most retiring of her sex! Money was nothing to her, least of all a trifling sum of five hundred francs. Monsieur Bouchard promptly replied, increasing his offer to a thousand francs. Another deeply injured note from Madame Vernet. At last, after five days of continual negotiation, Monsieur Bouchard haunting the Pigeon House every evening, terms were arranged—two thousand francs in exchange for the necklace.
It was infamous, but as Pierre reminded Monsieur Bouchard, one must always pay for one’s indiscretions. It would seem as if Madame Vernet had the direct inspiration of Satan himself in dealing with the too amiable and too susceptible Monsieur Bouchard. Not only had she given her address all along as the Pigeon House, but she appointed that abode of gaiety and champagne as the rendezvous where she was to meet Monsieur Bouchard and hand over the necklace in return for two thousand francs in notes of the Bank of France—Madame Vernet specified that there should be no cheque in the affair; she was so diffident; it always embarrassed her to go to a bank, and notes could be passed anywhere.
Élise had that evening found her opportunity to go round to the Rue Bassano
But Monsieur Bouchard was not wholly without discretion. He concluded he would rather not be seen in the act of handing over the money to Madame Vernet. Pierre—the foxyPierre—should give her the money and should receive the necklace. So, on the evening specified, the two took the train for Melun, and went rattling out of Paris without dreaming of what was brewing behind them and likewise stewing ahead of them.
It was simply this: Élise had that evening found her opportunity to go around to the Rue Bassano, and in five minutes she had discovered everything Monsieur Bouchard and Pierre had been doing since they left the Rue Clarisse. Theconciergeknew all about the chase after Madame Vernet, the continual trotting out to Melun—nay, she knew that both Pierre and his master had an appointment with Madame Vernet atthe Pigeon House that very evening. Élise returned, boiling with rage, to the Rue Clarisse, and with face and eyes blazing recounted to the trembling and agitated Mademoiselle Bouchard the horrid story of the frightful goings on in the Rue Bassano. And she had for audience not only poor Mademoiselle Bouchard, but Léontine de Meneval, who happened to be paying her weekly visit to Rue Clarisse. Léontine scarcely heard Élise’s fierce denunciations of the two reprobates in the Rue Bassano; all she really took in was the correspondence and the running to and fro about the necklace. She flew from the apartment, leaving Mademoiselle Bouchard in a state of collapse on the sofa, while Élise retailed every circumstance of horror she had found out about the renegades. Calling the first cab, Léontine drove rapidly home, rushed to her strong-box, and got the supposed paste necklace out. She hadsaid to Monsieur Bouchard that anybody could tell at a glance that it was an imitation, yet it so glowed and sparkled in its white radiance that for the first time she began to suspect it was real. If so, it only deepened the mystery, and she felt she must solve it then and there. Again ordering a cab, she sprang into it and ordered the cabman to drive her to one of the great jewelry shops in the Avenue de l’Opéra. On reaching it she ordered the carriage to wait, and going into the shop, asked to see the proprietor. He advanced, politely, and Léontine, taking the necklace from about her neck, where she wore it under her high bodice, said, with such calmness as she could muster:
And drove rapidly home
“Will you kindly give me some idea of the value of this?”
The jeweller took it up, examined it for a moment, and said:
“About forty thousand francs, I should say, Madame. The stones are remarkably well matched, better than in many costlier necklaces.”
“Do you mean to say the stones are—are——”
“Well matched, Madame. In fact,some of them came from this establishment. It was made by M. Leduc, a friend of mine, and I assisted him.”
“Thank you,” replied Léontine, forcing herself to be calm, reclasping the necklace round her throat and covering it up. She went out, got into the cab again, and hesitated before giving her order. She was in truth quite dazed and mystified. The man had touched his hat three times, when she said, with an air of quiet determination:
“To the St. Lazare station.”
Yes, she would that very moment go and confess all to Victor. Her resolution seemed an inspiration. There was some mystery about the necklace, and it was only fair that Victor should know it. There should be no more concealments between them. She reached the station just in time to miss the eight o’clock train. It was still daylight, and she waited for the next—a very slow one. Half-way to Melun the engine broke down. It was nearlyeleven o’clock before she found herself in front of the huge old barrack building in which de Meneval had his quarters.
In the middle of the room was spread a table, with preparation for an elaborate supper
The orderly who took the place ofconciergeat once recognized her and politely escorted her to Captain de Meneval’s door.
“I do not think Monsieur le Capitaine is in at present,” he said; “but if Madame will wait, he will no doubtbe here shortly.” And he knocked loudly at the door.
It was opened by a soldier—de Meneval’s servant—whom Léontine had never seen before. The man’s unfamiliar face, and the unlooked-for sight that met her eyes as soon as she stepped over the threshold, made her turn as if to go out. In the middle of the room was spread a table, with preparations for an elaborate supper; and Léontine’s quick eye discovered that ladies were expected, for to three huge bouquets were appended cards with names written on them. “For the Sprightly Aglaia,” “For Olga, the Queen of the Dance;” “For Louise of the Fairy Foot.”
Léontine, slightly embarrassed, said to the soldier:
“I see I have made a mistake. I am Madame de Meneval, and I supposed these to be Captain de Meneval’s quarters, but evidently they are not!”
“They are, Madame,” replied the man, very civilly.
“But I say they arenot!” replied Léontine, somewhat tartly. “Captain de Menevalneverentertains ladies at supper. He leads a most retired life at Melun, while here are preparations made for a gay party.”
“Pardon, Madame; but Monsieur le Capitaine is giving the party to some young ladies from the Pigeon House.”
Léontine’s first impulse was to box the soldier’s ears, but in sweeping another glance round the room she recognized her own picture over the mantel, together with a battered photograph of de Meneval’s chum, Major Fallière, and other things to convince her that Captain de Meneval was really the host of the impending supper party. She retained self-possession enough to say to the man:
“If you have finished you may go.” And he discreetly vanished.
Léontine, throwing her parasol on thesofa, began to march up and down the room in wrath and excitement.
“Theseare his quiet evenings!Hedoesn’t know anything about the Pigeon House since he was married! I shouldn’t have minded it if he had told me all about it, but to pretend to such economies, and at the same time be secretly indulging in these extravagances—these shameless orgies—oh, it is too much!”
Léontine had completely forgotten Putzki and Louise and the object of her sudden descent on her husband. While she was walking up and down, becoming every moment more angry and wrought up, the door opened, and in walked Major Fallière. Léontine recognized him at once from his picture—a soldierly looking man, slightly bald, immaculately well dressed, and bearing in his air the reason for his sobriquet, the Pink of Military Propriety. But his eye was not unkind; on the contrary, he was distinctly in the classof men designated by women as dear old things; and as such Léontine felt an instant confidence in him.
The correct Major was not so correct, however, that he hesitated to march up to Léontine, and chucking her playfully under the chin, remarked:
“The Pigeons are out early to-night. Where are the rest of the Pouters?”
Léontine’s face was a study. A flash of rage from her bright eyes was succeeded by a look of puzzled helplessness, and then a radiant smile of delight. This was really too good. He—old P. M. P.—had mistaken her, Léontine de Meneval, for one of the young ladies from the Pigeon House! Angry as she was, she could not forbear laughing, and she replied, with her sauciest air:
“Oh, they’ll be here presently. I came early because I had a premonition that old P. M. P. would be here early, too. Always on time—one of the cardinal virtues of a soldier.” Andthen Satan tempted her to tiptoe and actually chuck old P. M. P. under the chin!
To tiptoe and actually chuck old P. M. P. under the chin
The effect frightened her for a moment or two, because Major Fallière, perfectly astounded and highly offended, drew himself up stiffly and glared at her like an ogre. But she was so very pretty, her impertinence was accompanied with such a charming air of simplicity, that no man not an absolute ogre could withstand it. So, in spite of himself, old P. M. P.’s backbone relaxed, his eyes softened and he tugged at his mustache to disguise the smile thatwouldpersist in coming.
Léontine having once admitted Sataninto her heart, he speedily took complete possession of the premises, and the next thing he inspired her to do was to examine the prim Major carefully from the top of his thinly thatched head down to the tips of his well-fitting shoes, and say to him:
“I have often heard of you, and I am so glad to meet you. You know you are quite a handsome man, Major.”
The Major grinned.
“For your age, that is.”
The Major scowled.
“And I like you well enough to wish to make friends with you. But first I must tell you my name. It is Satanita.”
“Satanita! Rather suggestive, eh?”
“I should say so. Little Satan; and I match my name.”
“You are the sweetest, most innocent and captivating little devil I ever saw.”
“Thank you. You should see me dance and hear me sing. The Pouters,as you call them, are not a patch on me.”
“I can well believe it.”
“I have another name—I am called the Queen of the Harem-Scarem.”
“No doubt you are.”
“Now,” continued Léontine, seating herself with a confidential air beside Major Fallière, “what do you think of our host, Victor de Meneval?”
“One of the best fellows in the world.”
“Devoted to his wife, eh?”
“Yes. I have never seen her, but I hear she is a charming creature, and Victor is truly attached to her.”
“This looks like it, doesn’t it?” cried Léontine, pointing to the supper table.
“I don’t see that it doesn’t look like it. I happen to know that de Meneval has had a good deal to trouble him lately. He got some money from an unexpected source some days ago, andI advised him to give a little supper—it’s dull out here, you know——”
“Youadvised him to give a little supper! You—the Pink of Military Propriety!”
“Yes, why not?”
“And how about his wife?”
“Oh,” replied the Major, with easy confidence, “she would probably make an awful row if she knew it—but she’ll never know it. De Meneval has coached me—I know exactly what to tell Léontine when I meet her—it so happens that I have not met her yet. But I hear she is a charming young woman.”
“She will be twice as charming to you when she finds that you have been leading her husband off into giving suppers to—to—little devils like me for example,” said Léontine, very solemnly.
“Oh, de Meneval and I have mapped out our campaign. We have a large and trusty assortment of lies, expresslyfor Léontine’s consumption, and she will swallow every one of them.”
Now, this was very provoking of the Major, but something in his kind eyes, his way of standing up for Victor, his candid praise of herself, gave Léontine a sudden impulse to tell him the whole story of what was weighing on her and perplexing her and had driven her out to Melun at that hour of the night. She knew all about him, what a generous, sympathetic fellow he was, in spite of his primness and propriety—in short, that he was a dear old thing. So, with eyes flashing with mischief, and with smiles dimpling her fair face, Léontine said, demurely:
“I have still another name besides Satanita and Queen of the Harem-Scarem. Can’t you guess it?”
“No. I am not a clairvoyant.”
“I am—” Léontine rose, with her whole face sparkling with impish delight—“I am Léontine, Madame de Meneval, wife of your friend, Victor deMeneval. Yonder is my picture. Here am I.”
Poor P. M. P! He stared at her for a full minute, glared wildly about him, and then, jumping up, made a dash for the door, from which Léontine, laughing till the tears ran down her cheeks, dragged him back.
“What are you running away for?” she asked, forcing him to a seat beside her.
“Because—because—” the Major tore his hair, “oh, de Meneval will certainly shoot me when he hears that I chucked you under the chin!”
“But he won’t hear it, unless you tell him. AndIchuckedyouunder the chin, remember.”
Major Fallière, burying his head in his hands, groaned aloud, and then all at once the absurdity of the thing struck him, and he burst into a howl of laughter.
Léontine joined him. They laughed and laughed, and when they wouldget a little quiet Léontine would motion as if to chuck him under the chin again, and Fallière would go off into renewed spasms.
Léontine would motion as if to chuck him under the chin
Presently, however, Léontine grew grave. The instant success of her impromptu personation had given her an idea. She wanted revenge—a sharp revenge—on de Meneval, and she saw a way to get it.
“Listen, and be quiet,” she said toFallière. “Victor deserves to be punished. I will tell you why. He has always represented to me that he led the quietest kind of a life here—nothing but attention to his military duties, and his evenings spent in the seclusion of his own room, with nothing but ballistics and my picture for company.”
Fallière could not refrain from a soft whistle.
“And he professed to be so glad that you were ordered to Melun, because you were so much more sedate than the other officers. He complained that they spend too much time at the Pigeon House, while he had entirely given up frequenting that fascinating place.”
Fallière whistled a little louder.
“I had the greatest difficulty in persuading him to take me to supper there the other night. Now, what do I find? That he has been throwing sand into my eyes all the time.Look!” Léontine waved her arms dramatically toward the table. “Oughtn’t he to be punished?”
“Certainly he ought,” replied Fallière, with the ready acquiescence of a bachelor who thinks that married men should be made to toe the line.
“Very well. You will help me?”
“You may count on me.”
Léontine rose and looked around her. On the sideboard sat a couple of bottles of mineral water, and on the floor near by a wine cooler full of bottles of champagne. She cleverly transferred the labels from two of the champagne bottles to the apollinaris bottles and then put them in the wine cooler.
“I think I can drink at least a quart of apollinaris,” she said.
“And I’ll see that you get apollinaris every time,” replied that crafty villain of a Fallière, laughing.
“And I’m Satanita, and I shall act Satanita until I have made Victorsorry enough he ever played me any tricks.”
“Oh, no, you won’t! At the first sign of distress on his part you will throw the whole business to the winds, fall on his neck and implore his forgiveness. I know women well.”
“Of course you do—having never been married. But wait and see if I don’t give him a bad quarter of an hour. And I reckon on your assistance.”
“I will stand by you to the last.”
They were interrupted at this point by a great sound of scuffling outside the door, mingled with shrieks of girlish laughter. The door flew open, revealing three remarkably pretty girls—Aglaia, Olga and Louise—dragging in an elderly gentleman by main force and his coat tails. The elderly gentleman was resisting mildly but with no great vigor, and it was plain he was not particularly averse to the roguish company in which hefound himself. And the elderly gentleman was—Papa Bouchard!
Dragging in an elderly gentleman by main force and his coat tails
One of these merry imps from the Pigeon House had possessed herself of his hat, which she had stuck on her curly head; another one had laid violent hands on his umbrella, while the third and sauciest of the lot, Aglaia, had robbed him of his spectacles, which she wore on her tiptilted nose. Papa Bouchard, puffing, protesting,frightened, but laughing in spite of himself, was saying:
“Young ladies, young ladies, I really cannot remain, as you insist, to supper. I do not even know the name of the host on this occasion. I am quite unused to these orgies. I am out here this evening with my servant merely for the purpose of completing a business transaction.”
A chorus of “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” saluted this speech, and Mademoiselle Aglaia, Papa Bouchard’s chief tormentor, asked, solemnly:
“Is your business engagement with a lady or a gentleman?”
And when Papa Bouchard, in the innocence of his soul, replied, “It is with a lady,” each one of the Pouters, as the young ladies of the Pigeon House were called, pretended to fall over in a dead faint.
Papa Bouchard, much alarmed, ran from one to the other, trying to revive them; but while he was rubbingthe brow and slapping the hands of each in turn, Louise suddenly came to life, and running and locking the door, put the key into her pocket, so that Papa Bouchard had no means of escape except out of the third-story window or up the chimney.
Papa Bouchard, much alarmed, ran from one to the other
And at that moment his eye fell on Léontine.
Pity Papa Bouchard! He really had no intention of attending so gay a party. He had spent the whole evening anxiously watching for MadameVernet. She had not arrived, or at least had not seen fit to reveal herself, and while he was hovering about the entrance to the terrace garden looking for her, these three merry girls had come along, had swooped down on him without the least warning, and had carried him off bodily to de Meneval’s supper. Papa Bouchard had not the slightest idea of where he was when he was plumped down in Captain de Meneval’s room. But one look around him—the sight of Léontine—revealed his whole dreadful predicament to him. It was too much for poor Papa Bouchard!
His persecutors having permitted him to sit on a chair, he endeavored to recover himself, and fanning with his handkerchief in great agitation, he debated with himself what to do. Léontine, meanwhile, was laughing at him without a sign of recognition.
Papa Bouchard, presently finding his voice, said sternly to Léontine:
“May I ask what you are doing here in this company?”
To which Léontine, with pert gaiety, replied:
“And may I ask whatyouare doing here in this company?”
“I,” said Papa Bouchard, with dignity, “am here by accident, and by the violence of these young women.”
“Oh, what a fib!” cried Olga. “The old duffer begged us to let him come. We tried to shake him off, but we couldn’t. Isn’t that so, Aglaia and Louise?”
And Aglaia and Louise said it was so.
Papa Bouchard, astounded at such duplicity, glared at them, but the only satisfaction he got was a fillip on the nose from Aglaia and a remark to the effect that he and the truth didn’t live at the same address. Papa Bouchard indignantly turned his back on these traducers and again opened on Léontine.
“I am amazed—amazed at yourtemerity. What shall I say to Captain de Meneval when I see him, as I shall to-morrow morning?”
“Anything you like,” was Léontine’s laughing answer.
“Léontine de Meneval,” cried Papa Bouchard, much enraged, “do you knowme, your guardian and trustee?”
“No, I don’t,” responded Léontine, nonchalantly. “I never saw you before.”
At this, shouts of laughter came from the three young ladies, and they all urged Papa Bouchard to stop his wild career of prevarication and learn to tell the truth.
Papa Bouchard, quite beside himself, turned to Major Fallière.
“Sir,” he said, solemnly, “you wear the uniform of an officer, and I presume you are a gentleman. Believe me, this lady—” indicating Léontine—“is the wife of a brother officer of yours, Captain de Meneval. The truest kindness you can do him or heris to persuade her to leave this scene of dissipation and return to Paris with me.”
“O-o-o-oh!” shrieked the three impish girls in chorus, “what an outrageous proposition!”
“O-o-o-o-h!” shrieked the three impish girls in chorus. “What an outrageous proposition! And she says she never saw the man before!”
Papa Bouchard, still appealing to Major Fallière, continued, earnestly:
“Perhaps this misguided girl has nottold you that she is Madame Victor de Meneval.”
“She told me,” quietly replied Major Fallière, “that she was simply Satanita, a singer and dancer.”
Papa Bouchard dropped limply on the sofa and groaned in anguish of heart. But now was heard a jaunty step on the stair, which all recognized as de Meneval’s. The mischievous Aglaia ran forward and unlocked the door, and in stepped de Meneval, smiling and debonair.
Now, this little festivity had been his sole recreation during the ten miserable days since he had got into the complication of the necklace; and the supper, which was for only five, was at the suggestion of the Pink of Military Propriety. So it was without any compunctions that de Meneval walked into his quarters, expecting to find a small but jolly party. But he instantly recognized the two uninvited members, and stopping short on the carpet,his ruddy complexion turned a sickly green.
His ruddy complexion turned a sickly green
Papa Bouchard felt a sensation of triumph at Captain de Meneval’s entrance.He, at least, would not dare to deride and defy him, as these wretched young women had done. But before Monsieur Bouchard could open his mouth, Aglaia burst forth, pointing to the old gentleman:
“Of all the impudent men I ever saw, this one excels! What do youthink? As soon as he found we were coming here to supper, he hung on to us—declared there was nothing he liked so well as a gay little party, that he could drink so much champagne he was called the Champagne Tank—and actually forced himself in here, although we tried to push him out. Didn’t he, Olga and Louise?”
And Olga and Louise confirmed every word that Aglaia uttered.
Papa Bouchard, thoroughly exasperated, struck an attitude like that of Socrates in his favorite picture, “Socrates and His Pupils,” and addressed Captain de Meneval.
“Monsieur le Capitaine,” he said, “you of course do not and cannot believe a word that these young ladies say concerning my presence here to-night.”
Victor, very much alarmed, and dreading to catch Léontine’s eye, yet retained enough of his wits to see that he had Papa Bouchard at a disadvantage,and that the best thing to do was to assume the worst, and decline to listen to any explanation.
“Monsieur Bouchard,” he said, coldly, “you are asking a little too much of me when you wish me to believe your testimony against that of three ladies. I don’t know how you came, but I am very glad to see you now that you are here, and hope you will remain to supper.”
“But I came on business!” cried poor Papa Bouchard. “I had an appointment to finish up a transaction with a lady——”
And Aglaia and Louise and Olga again uttered a chorus of shrieks, and pretended to faint.
But de Meneval had troubles of his own to attend to then. He walked over to where Léontine sat, and assuming an air of forced jollity, such as a man puts on when he anticipates a wigging from the wife of his bosom, said:
She sang
“Delighted you happened to arrive, my love—and what do you think of the Pouters?”
“I think they are very jolly girls,” promptly replied Léontine; “but as I am another uninvited guest, I thought it best to tell Major Fallière and the others that I, too, am a singer and dancer—Satanita, I called myself, on the spur of the moment.”
De Meneval turned from green to blue. “And you did not immediately inform them that you are my wife?” he hissed, in a savage whisper.
“No,” coolly replied Léontine, “and when Papa Bouchard recognized me, I declared I had never seen him before. I am little Satanita—good name, isn’t it?—for this evening.”
De Meneval, enraged and disconcerted beyond words, felt helpless. Suppose he were to proclaim the truth? Léontine, as if answering the thought in his mind, whispered, with cruel glee:
“And if you say I am your wife I shall simply deny it. Satanita I am and Satanita I shall be, and I shall live up to the part—of that you may be sure.”
De Meneval was in doubt whether to shoot himself. And then there was a move toward the table. The girls were dragging Papa Bouchard forward, who, still very angry, was yet not insensible to their pretty and mischievous wiles. Léontine, running up to Major Fallière, demanded that he sit next her at table, while de Meneval found himself sitting opposite Léontine, and with indescribable feelings saw her drink champagne, as he supposed, by the tumblerful. Fallière had cleverly got hold of the two bottles of apollinaris, and filled Léontine’s glass with the greatest assiduity.
she even danced
There was much noise and excitement, and as the supper progressed de Meneval grew almost frantic over the spectacle his dear little Léontine was making of herself. For she not only managed to drink innumerable glasses of apollinaris, but she sang, she even danced. She paraded up and down the room, singing, in her sweet, saucy voice, verses made up at the moment.
“Oh, I am the Widow Clicquot, Clicquot,I live at the Château Margaux, Margaux,My coachman’s name is Pommery Sec,My footman is Piper Heidsieck,Moët-et-Chandon are my span.”
“Oh, I am the Widow Clicquot, Clicquot,I live at the Château Margaux, Margaux,My coachman’s name is Pommery Sec,My footman is Piper Heidsieck,Moët-et-Chandon are my span.”
“Oh, I am the Widow Clicquot, Clicquot,
I live at the Château Margaux, Margaux,
My coachman’s name is Pommery Sec,
My footman is Piper Heidsieck,
Moët-et-Chandon are my span.”
She paused for reflection and added:
“And when Moët and Chandon go lame,I drive Mumm and Roederer!”
“And when Moët and Chandon go lame,I drive Mumm and Roederer!”
“And when Moët and Chandon go lame,
I drive Mumm and Roederer!”
Here her invention gave out, and rubbing the top of de Meneval’s head with one of the champagne bottles, she added, laughing:
“Houp-là!”
That “Houp-là” almost drove de Meneval to distraction, but a roar of applause, in which all joined except her husband and Papa Bouchard, encouraged Léontine to continue. After a few moments’ reflection she began singing again:
“This is the way in Champagne Land!Oh, Champagne Land is dear to me,But Champagne Land is queer to me.There, lobsters grow on trees,There is a mine of cheese;The oysters walk,The cocktails talk,And thepâté de foie grasbuilds his nestIn the hedge where the anchovy paste grows best.”
“This is the way in Champagne Land!Oh, Champagne Land is dear to me,But Champagne Land is queer to me.There, lobsters grow on trees,There is a mine of cheese;The oysters walk,The cocktails talk,And thepâté de foie grasbuilds his nestIn the hedge where the anchovy paste grows best.”
“This is the way in Champagne Land!
Oh, Champagne Land is dear to me,
But Champagne Land is queer to me.
There, lobsters grow on trees,
There is a mine of cheese;
The oysters walk,
The cocktails talk,
And thepâté de foie grasbuilds his nest
In the hedge where the anchovy paste grows best.”
And she concluded with another “Houp-là!”
At this Papa Bouchard, who hadbeen as much horrified as de Meneval, leaned over and whispered in agony to him:
“She has certainly lost her mind and appears quite crazy!”
This was too much for poor de Meneval. He had spent an hour of torture while Léontine, vastly to her own amusement, to Major Fallière’s, and to that of the Pouters, had exhibited all the saucy graces of a Satanita, and Queen of the Harem-Scarem, but de Meneval could stand no more. Therefore, rising from the table, he cried, with tears in his eyes:
“My friends, I beg of you to leave me. This lady who calls herself Satanita is my wife. I have never seen her act in this manner before—I am sure she never so acted before. It is my duty as well as my privilege to shield her, and I wish to say that if any person, man or woman, ever mentions what her unfortunate conduct to-night has been, a life will be forfeited,for I swear to shoot any man who dares to breathe one word against her, and any woman who does it may reckon on my vengeance.” And with big tears rolling down his cheeks, he held his arms out to his wife.
I am your own true, devoted Léontine
This was too much for Léontine. Just as Major Fallière had predicted, at the first sign of repentance on de Meneval’s part she forgot all her resolutions to punish him, and falling into his arms, she exclaimed, in her own, natural voice:
“You dear, chivalrous angel, I haven’t touched champagne—it is nothing but apollinaris water, and I am your own true, devoted Léontine!”
De Meneval was so overcome that he could do nothing but pat her head and cry:
“Oh, what have you not made me suffer to-night!”
“At least,” replied Léontine, laughing and looking toward Major Fallière, “you have not spent your usual dull evening at Melun,” and de Meneval had the grace to blush, while old P. M. P. laughed back at the roguish Léontine.
Papa Bouchard, too, had suffered agonies at Léontine’s behavior—agonies, however, which the attentions he experienced at the hands of the young ladies partly ameliorated, for they had not stopped pinching and tickling him for a single moment.
“Really,” he said, “I have been very much agitated and distressed—I never saw such doings in the Rue Clarisse. I was very seriously concerned at my ward’s behavior—very seriously concerned. But now,” continued Papa Bouchard, “everything seems to be straightened out to everybody’s satisfaction, and finding ourselves accidentallytogether, why not finish up our evening with a jollity which—er—did not—er—exist, so far as I am concerned, in the beginning? So I say—houp-là!”
Alas! at that very moment the door opened softly behind him and in walked Madame Vernet! She was prettier, more demure and gentle than ever before. Her black costume, though highly coquettish, had a nun-like propriety about it. She advanced with downcast eyes, and said, timidly:
“I knocked and thought I heard someone say, ‘Come in.’ I do not know on whose hospitality I am trespassing, but I saw Monsieur Bouchard enter half an hour ago, and as I must see him on a matter of business, I venture to ask for a word with him here.”
Monsieur Bouchard, at the sight of her, seemed about to collapse. Not so Captain de Meneval. He rose at and said, with an ironical bow:
“Madame Vernet, you are trespassing on the hospitality of Captain de Meneval, the gentleman you adopted as a brother about ten days ago and handed over as a dangerous lunatic to Dr. Delcasse—who had a strait-jacket, a cold douche and a padded cell ready for him.”
At this Madame Vernet assumed an attitude more shrinking, more timid than before, and falling on Monsieur Bouchard’s shoulder, cried:
“Dear Paul, protect me from this dreadful person!”
Monsieur Bouchard was not at that moment able to protect anybody. He looked the picture of abject despair as he clutched the arms of his chair. He could only say, feebly:
“Go away! go away!”
“Is that the way you speak to your own Adèle!” cried Madame Vernet, burying her head on Monsieur Bouchard’s reluctant bosom and bursting into tears. “Oh, what a change withinone short week! Last week it was nothing but ‘Dearest Adèle, when will you name the day?’ And now it is ‘Go away! go away!’” Madame Vernet’s voice was lost in sobs, but she continued to rub her left ear vigorously into Monsieur Bouchard’s shirt front.
“It is false!” wailed Monsieur Bouchard, trying to escape from Madame Vernet’s left ear.
“Do you pretend to deny,” sobbed that timid and trustful creature, “that only a week ago you gave me this?” She took from her pocket the paste necklace, and at the sight of it a shock like a galvanic battery ran down the backbones of de Meneval and Léontine. “And that when I found it to be paste you offered me two thousand francs, in humble apology for the attempt to deceive me?”
“It is false!” again cried Monsieur Bouchard, almost weeping.
“And that we were to meet hereto-night in order to make exchange? Oh, dearest Paul, we have had lovers’ quarrels before, but nothing like this!”
Monsieur Bouchard was too much overcome by Madame Vernet’s affectionate attentions to do more than groan and try to push her away. But de Meneval, walking coolly up to her, quietly and very unexpectedly took the necklace out of her hand, saying:
“This is the property of my wife, and as such I take possession of it, and call on Monsieur Bouchard to make an explanation.”
At this Madame Vernet uttered a despairing shriek, and throwing both arms round Monsieur Bouchard’s neck, screamed:
“You must avenge this insult, Paul! And you must at least give me the two thousand francs!”
But Monsieur Bouchard was so perfectly delighted with the notion that de Meneval had the necklace and Pierre the two thousand francs, that his countenancechanged as if by magic. He struggled to his feet, and after vainly to disengage himself from Madame Vernet’s encircling arms, much to the amusement of the three young ladies and Major Fallière, cried:
“I am perfectly overjoyed to make an explanation—an explanation that will cause you, Léontine, and you, de Meneval, to forget all the unpleasant events of this evening. This necklace is paste—and the one Léontine has is real. You may remember, de Meneval, you came to my apartment a week ago last Monday evening, bringing Léontine’s real diamond necklace with you. You told me that when you bought it for her you also bought an imitation one for seventy-five francs, which you kept a secret from her.”
De Meneval, during this speech, had lost his dashing and determined attitude.
“I believe I did something of the kind,” he said, meekly.
“And that you had, still unknown to Léontine, put the paste one in place of the real one; and you threatened, if I did not advance money to pay a large bill you owed at the Pigeon House for things like this—” Monsieur Bouchard indicated the supper table and the guests with one wave of his arm—“you would take the necklace to the pawnbroker.”