“One should be virtuous for one’s own sake,” said the architect learnedly, as though by way of conclusion to thoughts he had not expressed. “I do not care a button for public opinion; I am an artist!”
After dinner, they remained in the drawing-room until midnight. It was a little jollification to celebrate Octave’s arrival. Madame Campardon appeared to be very tired; little by little she abandoned herself, leaning back on the sofa.
“Are you suffering, my darling?” asked her husband.
“No,” replied she in a low voice. “It is always the same thing.”
She looked at him, and then gently asked:
“Come, come,” said the architect, showering little kisses on her hair, forgetting they were not alone. “You will make yourself worse again. You know very well that I love you all the same, my poor pet!”
Octave, who had discreetly retired to the window, under the pretence of looking into the street, returned to study Madame Campardon’s countenance, his curiosity again awakened, and wondering if she knew. But she had resumed her amiable and doleful expression, and was curled up in the depths of the sofa, like a woman who has to find her pleasure in herself, and who is forcibly resigned to receiving the caresses that fall to her share.
At length Octave wished them good-night. With his candlestick in his hand, he was still on the landing, when he heard the sound of silk dresses rustling over the stairs. He politely stood on one side. It was evidently the ladies of the fourth floor, Madame Josserand and her two daughters, returning from some party. As they passed, the mother, a superb and corpulent woman, stared in his face; whilst the elder of the young ladies kept at a distance with a sour air, and the younger, giddily looked at him and laughed, in the full light of the candle. She was charming, this one, with her irregular but agreeable features, her clear complexion, and her auburn hair gilded with light reflections; and she had a bold grace, the free gait of a young bride returning from a ball in a complicated costume of ribbons and lace, like unmarried girls do not wear. The trains disappeared along the balustrade: a door closed. Octave lingered a moment, greatly amused by the gaiety of her eyes.