She had lowered her voice when giving this last piece of information, desirous of letting the young man know that, though her daughter was an artist, she did not let that carry her beyond the limits of propriety. She probably, however, thought Octave rather cold, she felt that the bowl had not met with the success she had anticipated, and she watched him with an anxious look, whilst Valérie and Madame Juzeur, who were drinking their fourth cup of tea, examined the painting and gave vent to little cries of admiration.
“You are looking at her again,” said Trublot to Octave, on seeing him with his eyes fixed on Valérie.
“Why, yes,” replied he, slightly confused. “It is funny, she looks pretty just at this moment. A warm woman, evidently. I say, do you think one might venture?”
“Warm, one never knows. It is a peculiar fancy! Anyhow, it would be better than marrying the girl.”
“What girl?” exclaimed Octave, forgetting himself. “What! you think I am going to let myself be hooked’ Never! My dear fellow, we don’t marry at Marseilles!” Madame Josserand had drawn near. The words came upon her like a stab in the heart. Another fruitless campaign, another evening party wasted! The blow was such, that she was obliged to lean against a chair, as she looked with despair at the now despoiled table, where all that remained was a burnt piece of the cake. She had given up counting her defeats, but this one should be the last; she took a frightful oath, swearing that she would no longer feed persons who came to see her solely to gorge. And, upset and exasperated, she glanced round the dining-room, seeking into what man’s arms she could throw her daughter, when she caught sight of Auguste resignedly standing against the wall and not having partaken of anything.
Just then, Berthe, with a smile on her face, was moving towards Octave, with a cup of tea in her hand. She was continuing the campaign, obedient to her mother’s wishes. But the latter caught her by the arm and called her a silly fool under her breath.
“Take that cup to Monsieur Vabre, who has been waiting for an hour past,” said she, graciously and very loud.
Then, whispering again in her daughter’s ear, and giving her another of her warlike looks, she added: