"But you are enjoying yourself when you are out shooting; that's quite different. I know very well that if I could, I should send M. Sylvestre back always in the carriage."
"If you like, we can drive him back to-day," said M. de Clagny.
"I should just think I should like to! You are very good to offer me that, because, you know, he is not very, very handsome--my professor--and he will not be any ornament on your coach!"
"Do you think I care anything about that? I am not snobbish, Bijou; not the least bit snobbish."
"But he isn't bad-looking, this fellow," said Jean de Blaye. "He has very fine eyes; they are wonderfully limpid and soft."
"I never noticed that," answered Bijou, laughing; "but even if they are, they could not be seen very well on the top of a coach. And he is very queerly dressed; he wears clothes that are too small, and which cling to him; and then long hair that is very lank; he looks rather like a drowned rat."
A domestic appeared at this instant to announce that M. Sylvestre had arrived.
"Have you told Josephine?" asked Madame Bracieux.
"Yes, Josephine is there, madame," replied the servant.
Jeanne Dubuisson rose, but Bijou stopped her.
"No, don't come with me," she said; "when I feel that there is anyone listening, that is, anyone beside Josephine, I don't do any good." And then, just as she was going out of the room, she turned round, and added: "At three o'clock I shall appear with my hat--and M. Sylvestre."
When Bijou entered her room, Josephine, the old housekeeper, who had seen two generations of the Bracieux family grow up, was sewing near the window, whilst, in the little room adjoining, the musician was arranging the music-stand, and taking his violin out of the case.
On seeing the young girl, his blue eyes lighted up, and seemed to turn pale against his red face. He was a young man of about twenty-eight years of age, very thin, very awkward, and dressed wretchedly enough; but there was something interesting about his face, an expression that was congenial, and yet, at the same time, told of anxiety and of trouble.
"How warm you are, Monsieur Sylvestre!" said Bijou, as she held out her hand to him; "and they have not brought you anything to drink yet! Josephine!" she called out, as she moved towards the door between the two rooms, "will you tell them to bring--ah, yes, what are they to bring? What will you take, Monsieur Sylvestre?--beer, lemonade, wine, or what? I never remember!"