Madame Worms-Clavelin came along through the rainy darkness, holding up her umbrella, and walking with the brisk, decided step which, for a wonder, had not grown heavy from long years spent in provincial towns. The door of the carriage that was waiting for her in front of the gates of the Park Monceau, opened a little, and then stood wide, and Madame Worms-Clavelin slipped calmly in and took a seat beside the young secretary, who immediately inquired as to her health. “I am always well,” she replied, adding, “What awful weather!” Streams of rain were running down the carriage windows; the street noises were drowned in the damp air, and all that could be heard was the gentle drip of the raindrops. When the carriage began to roll with a muffled sound over the paved road, she asked: “Where are we going?” “Where you like.” Having given instructions to the driver, Maurice Cheiral turned to the prÉfet’s wife and said: “I have much pleasure in informing you that the appointment of AbbÉ Guitrel (Joachim) to the See of Tourcoing will be announced in to-morrow’s Officiel. I do not want to boast, but I can assure you that it has not been a very easy matter to arrange. The Nuncio is great at procrastination. People of that description make use of a prodigious amount of inactivity—Well, anyhow, everything is settled.” “That’s good,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin. “I am sure you have rendered a service to the progressive republican party, and that the Moderates will have every reason to be pleased with their new bishop.” “At any rate,” went on Maurice Cheiral, “you are satisfied.” After a long silence he continued: “Just think, I never slept all night. I was thinking of you, and longing to see you again.” The strange thing was that he was speaking the truth, and that the expectation of this rendezvous had excited him. But he spoke in a joking tone and drawling voice that made his words appear false, besides which he was wanting both in assurance and decision. “Thank you, dear M. Cheiral. Put me down here, if you please, and remember me to your mother.” And she held out her hand, a little, stumpy hand clad in an exceedingly dirty glove. But he held it tightly, becoming tender and insistent, full of desire and amour-propre. “I am as muddy as a water spaniel,” she remarked, just as he was about to find that out for himself. While he adhered to his resolve, in spite of the obstacles of circumstances and environment, she showed the most perfect good taste and simplicity. With wonderful tact, she avoided all the unpleasantness arising from an over-prolonged resistance or a too rapid resignation. In like manner she avoided any remark that might reveal either ironical indifference or interested participation. She behaved perfectly. She had no feeling of dislike for the young statesman, who was so innocent at the very moment when he believed himself to be so wicked, and feelings of real regret came over her as she reflected that she might have been more careful in selecting her lingerie for the occasion; she never After a while, Maurice suddenly became quiet, indifferent, even a trifle bored. He talked of things quite foreign to their present situation, and peered through the blurred window-panes at the streets that looked as though the carriage were going along at the bottom of an aquarium; all that could be seen through the rain was the gas-jets, and here and there the glass jars in the windows of the chemists’ shops. “What awful rain!” sighed Madame Worms-Clavelin. “The weather has been dreadful for the last week,” said Maurice Cheiral, “simply rotten. Is it the same in your part of the country?” “We get more rain in our department than in any other in France,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin with charming sweetness. “But there is never any mud on the broad, gravelled garden paths of the PrÉfecture. Then we country people wear clogs.” “Do you know,” said Cheiral, “that I have never been to your town?” “There are beautiful walks there,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin, “and the surroundings “Does your husband like living there?” “Yes, he likes it because he has been successful there.” In her turn, she tried to see through the clouded panes and to pierce the thick darkness that was full of fugitive glimmers of light. “Where are we?” she asked. “Far away from everywhere, I should think,” he replied eagerly. “Where would you like me to put you down?” She asked him to stop at a station, and he did not attempt to disguise his anxiety to leave her. “I must go to the Chambre,” he said. “I do not know what they have been doing to-day.” “Ah, they were sitting to-day?” “Yes,” he replied, “but there was nothing of importance, I believe—an increase of tariff. But one never knows. I had better just look in.” They took leave of one another easily and amicably. As Madame Worms-Clavelin stepped into a fiacre in the Boulevard de Courcelles, near the fortifications, she heard the newsboys crying the evening papers, and holding them out to the passers-by as they hurried along. She caught sight of a heading in huge letters—“Fall of the Government.” “Neuilly,” she said to the driver, “Boulevard Bineau, the Convent of the Dames du Saint-Sang.” And she sat pensive and solitary, while the cries of the newsvendors filled her ears, and she tried to convince herself that the news was true. She would not buy a paper, however, partly out of mistrust and contempt for all newspaper matter, and partly because she was determined not to rob herself of so much as a half-penny. She reflected that if the Ministry really had fallen, just at the moment when she was being so prodigal of her favours, it was a striking example of the irony of things and the spite that hovers ceaselessly about us, like the very atmosphere The fog was paler and less dense in the deserted avenues, and the low, damp streets of Neuilly. Through the gentle rain, the strong, graceful outlines of the great bare trees were visible. Madame Worms-Clavelin caught a glimpse of some poplars, and they reminded her of the country which she loved more dearly every day. She reached the barred doorway crowned with a stone shield bearing the glove in which Joseph of “Good evening, mother!” Madame Worms-Clavelin drew her daughter under the lamp and examined her teeth; that was always her first care. Then she looked at her eyes, to see whether she were anÆmic or not, saw that her back was straight and that she did not bite her nails. When satisfied on all these points, she inquired as to her work and her conduct. Her solicitude was full of sound common sense and much experience, and altogether she was an excellent mother. When at last the bell rang for evening study, and it was time to say good-bye, Madame Worms-Clavelin drew from her pocket a box of chocolates. The box was crushed, broken, dilapidated, and as flat as a pancake. Mademoiselle de Clavelin took it, saying with a laugh: “Oh, mother! It looks as if it had been in the wars!” “It is this dreadful weather!” said Madame Worms-Clavelin, with a shrug of her shoulders. That evening after dinner at the boarding-house she found on the drawing-room table a well-known evening paper whose information she The news delighted her, and as she thought of her husband, she said to herself, “Lucien will be pleased to hear that Guitrel has been made bishop.” |