On reaching the street, Campardon turned into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. He remained silent, with the absorbed air of a man seeking for an opportunity to broach a subject.
“Do you remember Mademoiselle Gasparine?” asked he, at length. “She is first lady assistant at the Hédouins’. You will see her.”
Octave thought this a good time for satisfying his curiosity.
“No! no!” exelaimed the architect, hastily, and as though feeling hurt at the bare idea.
Then, as the young man appeared surprised at his vehemence, he gently continued, speaking in an embarrassed way:
“No; she and my wife no longer see each other. You know, in families— Well, I met her, and I could not refuse to shake hands, could I? more especially as she is not very well off, poor girl. So that, now, they have news of each other through me. In these old quarrels, one must leave the task of healing the wounds to time.”
Octave was about to question him plainly on the subject of his marriage, when the architect suddenly put an end to the conversation by saying:
It was a large linen-drapers, opening on to the narrow triangle of the Place Gaillon, at the corner of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin and the Rue de la Michodière. Across two windows immediately above the shop was a signboard, with the words, “The Ladies’ Paradise, founded in 1822,” in faded gilt letters, whilst on the shop windows was inscribed, in red, the name of the firm, “Deleuze, Hédouin, & Co.”
“It has not the modern style, but it is honest and solid,” rapidly explained Campardon. “Monsieur Hédouin, formerly a clerk, married the daughter of the elder Deleuze, who died a couple of years ago; so that the business is now managed by the young couple—the old Deleuze and another partner, I think, both keep out of it. You will see Madame Hédouin. Oh! a woman with brains! Let us go in.”
It so happened that Monsieur Hédouin was at Lille buying some linen; therefore Madame Hédouin received them. She was standing up, a penholder behind her ear, giving orders to two shopmen who were putting away some pieces of stuff on the shelves; and she appeared to him so tall, so admirably lovely, with her regular features and her tidy hair, so gravely smiling, in her black dress, with a turn-down collar and a man’s tie, that Octave, not usually timid, could only stammer out a few observations. Everything was settled without any waste of words.