On the morrow of the quarrel, Octave, delighted at having prevailed on the young woman to accept his present, thought that it would be well for him to ingratiate himself with the husband. Therefore, as he took his meals at his employer’s table—the latter being in the habit of feeding his assistants, so as always to have them at hand—he showed him the utmost attention, listened to him at desserts and warmly approved all he said. He even went so far in private as to appear to sympathize with his complaints against his wife, pretending, too, to watch her, and making him little reports. Auguste felt greatly touched; he admitted one night to the young man that he had been on the point of discharging him, under the idea that he was conniving with his mother-in-law.
“You understand me, you do!” he would say to the young man. “I merely want peace. Beyond that I don’t care a hang, virtue excepted, of course, and providing my wife doesn’t carry off the cash-box. Eh? am I not reasonable? I don’t ask her for anything extraordinary?”
And Octave lauded his wisdom, and they celebrated together the sweetness of an uneventful existence, year after year, always the same, passed in measuring off silk. One evening he had alarmed Auguste by reverting to his dream of vast modern bazars, and by advising him, as he had advised Madame Hédouin, to purchase the adjoining house, so as to enlarge his premises. Auguste, whose head was already splitting between his four counters, had looked at him with the frightened air of a tradesman accustomed to dividing farthings into four, that he had hastened to withdraw his suggestion and to go into raptures over the honest security of small dealings.
Days passed by; Octave was making his little nest in the place, a cozy nest lined with wool which would keep him nice and warm. The husband esteemed him; Madame Josserand herself, with whom, however, he avoided being too polite, looked at him encouragingly. As for Berthe, she was becoming charmingly familiar with him. But his great friend was Saturnin, whose dumb affection he felt was increasing daily—a faithful dog’s devotion which grew as his longing for the young woman became more intense. Toward every one else the madman displayed a gloomy jealousy; a man could not approach his sister without his becoming at once uneasy, curling up his lips, and preparing to bite. But if, on the contrary, Octave leant freely toward her, and caused her to laugh with the soft and tender laughter of a happy mistress, he laughed himself with delight, and his face reflected a little of their sensual joy. The poor creature seemed to feel a gratitude full of happiness for the chosen lover. He would detain the latter in all the corners, casting mistrustful glances about; then, if he found they were alone, he would speak to him of her, always repeating the same stories in broken phrases.