"Blown up?" asked Bijou, innocently opening her limpid eyes wide in surprise, whilst Jeanne's face, usually so impa.s.sive, turned almost purple. "Blown up? by whom?"

And then, as there was a dead silence, which became more and more embarra.s.sing, Bijou turned to her friend.

"Let's go out for a stroll in the garden, Jeanne, shall we?" she said.

"I'll come with you," remarked Pierrot promptly; but Bijou pushed him gently back.

"No! we shall do very well by ourselves, thank you; you would worry us."

As the two girls were descending the hall-door steps, Bijou said to Jeanne, who was just behind her, and who had not quite recovered from her embarra.s.sment:

"I know why you looked so conscious just now; you were thinking of the gossip about that actress--I've forgotten her name--whom M. de Bernes knows. I had not thought of it at the time, and so it did not trouble me. You see I was right when I told you that it was a mistake to listen to Mere Rafut's tales."

"Yes, you always are right!" answered Jeanne pensively; "I said then that you are always right!"

After Bijou's departure, the men one after another left the drawing-room.

"What's the matter, Bertrade?" asked the marchioness, as soon as she found herself alone with Madame de Rueille. "Paul looked very queer during breakfast!"

"Did you think so?" said the young wife, not wishing either to acknowledge it or to tell an untruth about the matter.

"I did think so, and you looked queer too; and as I watched you both, an idea dawned upon me."

"And what is this idea?"

"It is that my dear little Marcel is no more ill than I am, and that the letter you showed me this morning is nothing but a pretext for getting your husband away from here; is that so?"

Madame de Rueille was too straightforward to be able to deny the fact.

"It is so!"

"And so you are jealous, and jealous of Bijou?"

"Not jealous, oh, dear no! not in the least; but anxious."

"About Bijou?"

Madame de Rueille looked serious as she shook her pretty head.

"No, about Paul."

"You are not afraid of your husband going too far, I suppose?"

"No!"

"Well, what then?"

"I am anxious about his peace of mind, and then, too, I do not care for him to make himself completely ridiculous."

"You must know, my dear Bertrade, that I have seen for some time past that Paul was gone on Bijou, just as all the others are--for there is no mistake about it, they all are; and the last few days I have noticed that your abbe even has begun to lose his indifference; don't you think so?"

"It is very possible!"

"Yes, and I am sure that he isn't going along quite so peacefully in his worship of G.o.d as formerly?"

"And that does not displease you either, grandmamma, does it? Come, now, own it!"

"Oh, well; as long as it is just a little beneficial upset for him, I don't mind; but I should not like it to develop into anything serious--you understand where I draw the line?"

"No, because I always pity all those who are suffering from such little upsets--as you call them--even when they are mild, I think they are calculated to make people suffer greatly."

"You always see a darker side of things than I do; at all events, I think that the idea of carrying Paul off is a very excessive and unwise kind of remedy. He keeps a strict guard over himself, and no one suspects the true state of things except you--"

"And all the others!"

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Well, even if it be so, that is of no importance, provided that Bijou does not suspect it herself. Why do you not answer?"

"Because I am not of the same opinion as you, grandmamma, and you do not like that as a rule, particularly when it is a question of Bijou."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said, nothing else."

"Then, according to you, Bijou has noticed it from--"

"From the very first day."

"And even if that should be so, she cannot help it! Besides, what danger does she run?"

"None at all."

"Paul is honourable."

"Undoubtedly, and even if he were not, Bijou would have nothing to fear for several reasons."

"What are they?"

"Well, in the first place--her own indifference. Paul makes about as much impression on her, I believe, as a table."

"Next?"

"Next? Why, that's all!"