"You also, Monsieur Lanlaire."
"And thirty francs, mind you. I do not take back what I said."
"You are very good."
And the old man, trembling on his legs, and with back bent, went away, and disappeared in the darkness. _____
Poor Monsieur! he must have received his lecture!
And, as for father Pantois, if ever he gets his thirty francs,—well, he will be lucky.
I do not wish to justify Madame, but I think that Monsieur is wrong in talking familiarly with people that are too far beneath him.
It is not dignified.
I know very well that he doesn't lead a gay life, to be sure, and that he takes such opportunities as offer. That is not always convenient.
When he comes back late from a hunt, dirty and wet, and singing to keep up his courage, Madame gives him a warm reception.
"Ah! it is very nice of you to leave me alone all day!"
"But you know very well, my pet...."
"Be still."
She sulks for hours and hours, her forehead stern, her mouth ugly.
He follows her about everywhere, trembling and stammering excuses.
"But, my pet, you know very well...."
"Let me alone; you make me tired."
The next day, naturally, Monsieur does not go out, and Madame exclaims:
"Why do you wander about thus in the house, like a soul in torment?"
"But, my pet...."
"You would do much better to go out, to go hunting, the devil knows where!
You annoy me; you unnerve me.
Go away."
So that he never knows what to do, whether to go or stay, to be here or elsewhere.
A difficult problem. But, as in either case Madame scolds, Monsieur has taken the course of going away as often as possible.
In that way he does not hear her scold.
Ah! it is really pitiful. _____
The other morning, as I was going to spread a little linen on the hedge, I saw him in the garden.
Monsieur was gardening.
The wind having blown down some dahlias during the night, he was refastening them to their props.
Very often, when he does not go out before lunch, Monsieur works in the garden; at least, he pretends to be occupying himself with something or other in his platbands.
It is always time gained from the ennui of the household.
During these moments there are no scenes.
Away from Madame, he is no longer the same man.
His face lightens up, his eyes shine.
Naturally gay, his gaiety comes to the surface. Really, he is not disagreeable. In the house, indeed, he rarely speaks to me now, and, though still bent on his idea, seems to pay no attention to me. But outside he never fails to address me a pleasant little word, after making sure, however, that Madame cannot be spying him.
When he does not dare to speak to me, he looks at me, and his look is more eloquent than his words.
Moreover, I amuse myself in exciting him in all ways, although I have taken no resolution concerning him.
In passing by him, in the path where he was working, bent over his dahlias, with bits of string between his teeth, I said to him, without slackening my pace:
"Oh! how hard Monsieur is working this morning!"
"Yes, indeed," he answered; "these confounded dahlias!
You see...."
He invited me to stop a minute.
"Well, Celestine, I hope you are getting accustomed to the place, now?"
Always his mania!
Always the same difficulty in engaging in conversation!
To please him, I replied with a smile:
"Why, yes, Monsieur, certainly; I am getting accustomed here."
"I am glad to hear it. It is not bad here; really, it is not bad."
He quite straightened up, gave me a very tender look, and repeated: