Chérubin glanced at his clock; it was half after eleven; he was not to be at Madame de Valdieri’s until one, but he proposed to make an extremely careful toilet. He rang for Jasmin, he rang for his other servant, he ordered several suits to be brought, and could not determine which one to wear. He had his hair dressed, crimped and curled, rising constantly to look in a mirror. He told his old servant to perfume his handkerchief, upon which Jasmin emptied several phials, smiling cunningly, and murmuring: “What did I say? Our _bonnes fortunes_ are about to begin. We are going to have some sport now! We are quite good-looking enough for that.”
As he dressed, Chérubin thought of the pretty woman with whom he was soon to be alone for the first time; he was not very composed in mind, for he was wondering what he should say to her. He was well pleased to have the assignation, but he regretted that Monfréville was not there to tell him how one should behave with a lady of the most fashionable set, who invites one to read poetry to her.
It was too late for him to consult Monfréville; the appointed hour was drawing nigh. Chérubin completed his toilet, but did not notice that Jasmin had saturated him with perfumery: his coat was scented with essence of rose, his waistcoat with patchouli, his handkerchief with Portugal water; and, in addition, all his other garments smelt of musk. He looked himself over, concluded that he was becomingly arrayed, stepped into his tilbury, and soon reached the countess’s abode.
He was admitted by the same maid, and instead of taking him to the salon, she led him through several secret passages to a delicious boudoir, where the light was so soft and mysterious that one could scarcely see. However, after a few seconds, Chérubin’s eyes became accustomed to that doubtful light, and he spied the pretty countess half-reclining on a couch at the back of a little curtained recess, which seemed intended to perform the functions of an alcove.
“I beg pardon, madame, but I did not see you at first, it is so dark here.”
“Do you think so?” rejoined the fair Emma affectedly. “I don’t like broad daylight, it tires my eyes.--It is very kind of you, Monsieur Chérubin, to consent to sacrifice a few moments to me--you are in such great demand everywhere!”