"I am distressed, madame, to have upset your soup."

Leonie raised her eyes, gave a shriek, and fainted. That was the best thing that she could do under the circ.u.mstances. The little man, who also had recognized Dalville, and who was afraid of being challenged to fight a duel, leaped over the stooping waiter, and rushing down the stairs four at a time, left the Tournebride and plunged into the woods, without casting a glance behind. Virginie, who had left her room, exclaimed in surprise when she recognized Auguste's neighbor in the unconscious woman; and the waiter, thinking that everybody was shouting because of the soup, kept repeating:

"It's nothing, messieurs, mesdames; don't get excited; there's more downstairs; we always have plenty of julienne."

Virginie's anger had vanished and she laughed as if she would die.

Auguste looked at Leonie, who sat in her chair, with her head thrown back, and did not open her eyes; while the waiter, seeing nothing of what took place inside the room, went downstairs, crying:

"I'll bring up some more soup; it'll only take a minute."

Meanwhile Virginie had walked up to Madame Saint-Edmond, and, taking the mustard pot from the table, had held it under her nose; with the result that the pretty blonde instantly recovered consciousness and cast a languid glance on the person who had been so attentive. But when she recognized Virginie, her expression changed, and she roughly pushed away the mustard pot which that young lady was holding to her nose.

"Does madame feel better?" queried Virginie, imitating Leonie's mellifluous tone.

The latter, choking with rage, rose and said in a trembling voice:

"I don't need anything."

"Come, my dear love," said Auguste, "we must not intrude upon madame any longer; I deeply regret that I frightened her companion away. But doubtless the gentleman is only awaiting our departure, to return; we must not compel him to stay in the kitchen any longer. Let's go and finish our dinner."

"Yes, let's go back and eat our omelette soufflee," said Virginie, with a profound curtsy to Leonie, and she returned to her seat at the table in the other room. Auguste was about to do likewise, when Leonie ran to him, raising her eyes to the ceiling, and said in an undertone:

"You judge me by appearances; but I swear to you----"

"Oh! upon my word, this is too much," cried Auguste; and he angrily slammed the door in Madame Saint-Edmond's face, exclaiming: "Take a woman in the act, and she would still say: 'Don't judge by appearances.'"

Virginie was overjoyed by the incident; she joked Auguste about his neighbor's fidelity, and he tried to laugh with her, although at heart he was not over-pleased that he had allowed himself to be hoodwinked.

They finished their dinner at last and were about to leave their room and the Tournebride, when they heard loud voices, and recognized those of the inn-keeper and of Madame Saint-Edmond.

"Madame," said the former, "you can't go away like this; I must be paid for my dinner."

"Monsieur," replied Madame de Saint-Edmond, imparting a moving intonation to her voice, "I am very sorry, but you must believe that I had no intention----"

"I see, madame, that you have an intention to go away; your friend went off like a shot just now; who is to pay me for my dinner, I should like to know?"

"But, monsieur," rejoined Leonie, and her voice became a little less pathetic, "after all, we didn't dine; so we don't owe you anything."

"What's that? you don't owe anything, madame! When a dinner's ordered, and such care taken with it as with this one, do you think it isn't to be paid for? Do you propose to leave your fillets and sweetbreads on my hands? It isn't my fault that you don't choose to eat."

"You can give them to some other party, monsieur."

"You had a bottle of old macon when you got here; and there's the soup wasted, and the broken tureen."

"That's none of my affair, monsieur."

"Your dinner's your affair, madame; eat it and pay for it."

"I don't feel well, I tell you."

"Pay for it then."

"But I have no money with me."

"You shouldn't have let your friend run off as if he'd seen the devil! A man ought not to leave a woman in a false position! The deuce! decent people don't do that! He must be a nice kind of fellow, to disappear with the money. You shouldn't go into a restaurant when you don't mean to dine."

"Monsieur," retorted Madame Saint-Edmond, with an angry ring in her voice, "this isn't the first time we've come here to dinner; do you take us for riff-raff?"

"No, madame; of course I know perfectly well who I'm dealing with, but I don't choose to give credit; a fine dinner like this ought not to be refused when it's all cooked."

During this dialogue, Auguste had all the difficulty in keeping Virginie from laughing aloud. At last, moved to pity by the sentimental Leonie's plight, he went downstairs, followed by Virginie, and said to the landlord, who did not take his eyes from Madame Saint-Edmond:

"As I have the honor to know madame, I beg you to add the amount of her bill to mine, monsieur; I will pay both."

The host, whose only desire was to be paid, resumed his affable air and made haste to reckon up the two accounts. Meanwhile the pretty blonde sank into a chair, holding her handkerchief to her face.

Auguste having paid, Virginie, whose triumph was complete, took his arm and left the inn with him, saying in a mocking tone:

"If we meet the gentleman in the forest, we will send him back to madame."

That fling was the last straw, and Auguste felt amply avenged.

XI

A VISIT TO MONTFERMEIL

Auguste, who had no secrets from the faithful Bertrand, told him of the meeting in Romainville forest.

"Well, lieutenant," said Bertrand, "was Madame Schtrack mistaken when she told me about the little man that slunk upstairs as soon as you left?"

"I thought that Leonie adored me."

"I'm surprised at that, lieutenant; you deceive the ladies so often yourself, that you ought to be a little more suspicious of their oaths."

"On the contrary, my dear Bertrand, I a.s.sure you that those who are most cunning in seduction allow themselves to be deceived with astounding ease."

"Then it's no use to be cunning."

"Because you're very fond of a person, that doesn't prove that you know that person thoroughly."

"It is certain that if you knew her thoroughly, you might not be so fond of her; for instance, I love wine, I confess; I always know when it's good, but I can't always tell what province it comes from."

"And I love women, I appreciate their charms, I admire their beauties; but their hearts--Ah! if they exhibited them to the naked eye, the prettiest ones wouldn't always be preferred."

"For all that, lieutenant, if I were you, I'd be a little shy of those affected airs, and those voices always pitched in a falsetto key, which never come from the chest; it seems to me that a person can't be talking honestly when she always acts as if she was singing. I would be on my guard too against fainting fits, tears and stifled sighs."