“Was your husband, as I’ve been told, nearly twice your age?” asked Madame Deberle with an appearance of profound interest, while Mademoiselle Aurelie cocked her ears so as not to lose a syllable of the conversation.
“Oh, no!” replied Hélène. “He was scarcely six years older.”
Then she ventured to enter into the story of her marriage, telling in a few brief sentences how her husband had fallen deeply in love with her while she was living with her father, Monsieur Mouret, a hatter in the Rue des Petites-Maries, at Marseilles; how the Grandjean family, who were rich sugar-refiners, were bitterly opposed to the match, on account of her poverty. She spoke, too, of the ill-omened and secret wedding after the usual legal formalities, and of their hand-to-mouth existence, till the day an uncle on dying left them some ten thousand francs a year. It was then that Grandjean, within whom an intense hatred of Marseilles was growing, had decided on coming to Paris, to live there for good.
“And how old were you when you were married?” was Madame Deberle’s next question.
The conversation suddenly ceased, for Hélène had not seemed to hear the remark.
“Madame Manguelin!” announced the footman.
A young, retiring woman, evidently ill at ease, was ushered in. Madame Deberle scarcely rose. It was one of her dependents, who had called to thank her for some service performed. The visitor only remained for a few minutes, and left the room with a courtesy.
Madame Deberle then resumed the conversation, and spoke of Abbé Jouve, with whom both were acquainted. The Abbé was a meek officiating priest at Notre-Dame-de-Grace, the parish church of Passy; however, his charity was such that he was more beloved and more respectfully hearkened to than any other priest in the district.
“Oh, he has such pious eloquence!” exclaimed Madame Deberle, with a sanctimonious look.
“He has been very kind to us,” said Hélène. “My husband had formerly known him at Marseilles. The moment he heard of my misfortune he took charge of everything. To him we owe our settling in Passy.”
“He has a brother, hasn’t he?” questioned Juliette.
“Yes, a step-brother, for his mother married again. Monsieur Rambaud was also acquainted with my husband. He has started a large business in the Rue de Rambuteau, where he sells oils and other Southern produce. I believe he makes a large amount of money by it.” And she added, with a laugh: “The Abbé and his brother make up my court.”
