“Why, you drenched me with perfumery, Jasmin; you put it on all my clothes; I was a regular walking scent-bag.”
“Why, yes! I smelt too good--that is to say, too strong! In fact, I went to people’s heads. Nervous ladies can’t endure that sort of thing, and you are responsible for a lady’s fainting away. It was exceedingly unpleasant.”
Jasmin was in despair. To repair his blunder of the previous day, he suggested putting camphor in all his master’s pockets, because he had been told that that was very good for the nerves, and he supposed that it would cure the illnesses caused by perfumery. But Chérubin would not have it; he expressly forbade Jasmin to perfume him in any way, and he was obliged to lose his temper in order to deter his old servant from slipping lumps of camphor into his pockets.
When his toilet was completed, Chérubin assured himself that he did not smell of anything at all; and, while waiting for the hour at which he was to go to Madame Célival’s, he thought about the lovely widow and went over in his mind what he could say to her. The thing that worried him most was the breakfasting with her.
“When you breakfast with a lady you’re in love with,” he said to himself, “I wonder if you should eat, if you should satisfy your appetite? Mon Dieu! I forgot to ask Monfréville for instructions on that point. I’m afraid I shall make more stupid blunders.--But after all, what is it that I am always blamed for? For being too timid. If I don’t eat, I shall look like a fool; on the other hand, if I eat and drink freely, it will give me assurance and presumption. Yes, I certainly must eat.”
The breakfast hour arrived at last. Chérubin betook himself to Madame Célival’s; his heart throbbed violently as he followed the maid to the boudoir, but he said to himself:
“Well, I won’t be timid to-day, at all events, and I’ll eat a lot.”
The fair widow’s boudoir was a charming retreat, hung on all sides with violet velvet. A soft, thick carpet covered the floor, and the threefold curtains allowed very little light to enter.
“Evidently these ladies are very fond of the darkness,” thought Chérubin, as he entered the room; “but I am not to read poetry to-day, and I can see well enough to eat breakfast. And then, I understand--the darkness should make one bolder--that is the reason, no doubt, why these ladies expel the daylight from their rooms.”