Paul and His Dog Volume Ii Part 6

"You would have been very foolish, and we hope, on the contrary, that you will continue, although you know that we are here."

"If it will give you any pleasure, madame, I will do whatever you command. But may I not hear you and mademoiselle, also?"

"Oh, yes! monsieur, we will both sing; and as I have not enough talent to require urging, I will begin."

Honorine seated herself at the piano. She had not much voice, but she put so much expression into the words she sang that one never tired of hearing her.

Next it was Agathe's turn; she faltered, forgot words and air, confused one song with another, and sang very badly because she longed to sing better than usual.

"Do not judge her by this hearing," said Honorine; "really, she is not in voice to-day."

"I am hoa.r.s.e!" murmured Agathe with a pout, as she left the piano.

Edmond sang again, and his sympathetic voice delighted the two friends so much that they listened too intently to hear Poucette, who stood in the doorway shouting that dinner was served. However, the young peasant's loud voice succeeded at last in making itself heard. They left the piano and went down into the garden, where the table was laid under an arbor. To dine in the open air is one of the great joys of life in the country; and to those sybarites who fear that they may not have everything necessary to their comfort, who make a wry face if a leaf falls on their plate, if a maybug buzzes about their ears, I would say:

You do not know that the sense of well-being which one feels on breathing the pure country air always sharpens the appet.i.te.

The dinner pa.s.sed off very merrily.

Edmond was agreeable, Honorine witty, and Agathe happy. Everybody was content.

From time to time Edmond exclaimed:

"How lovely it is to live in the country! I think I must hire a little room in the neighborhood, for the summer; it would do me a great deal of good."

"Is your health poor, monsieur?" asked Honorine in a slightly sarcastic tone, for the young man had done ample justice to the dinner.

"I am not ill as yet, madame; but my lungs are weak, very weak."

"Why, that is strange; one would not think it, to hear you sing."

"I a.s.sure you that a doctor, a friend of mine, tells me that the country air would do me no end of good."

"Indeed, I believe that it can never injure anyone."

"If I could find a small furnished apartment in this vicinity--a bachelor requires so little!"

"Oh! you can find that!" exclaimed Agathe; "it seems to me I have seen signs on the main street. It would be very nice to have you for a neighbor!"

"It is I, mademoiselle, whom it would make very happy."

Honorine nudged her young friend with her knee, to urge her to be less expansive; whereupon Agathe made a funny little face and held her peace until some new outburst escaped her.

The girl was not as yet accustomed to society, and she said frankly just what she thought; which people are very careful not to do in society--and with good reason.

The music had delayed the dinner, and they were still talking around the table in the garden long after it had grown dark. Suddenly Poucette ran toward them with a terrified air, and said to the young man:

"Monsieur, your name's Edmond Didier, isn't it?"

"Yes--why?"

"Because there's a young gentleman running all about the neighborhood, shouting at the top of his lungs:

"'Edmond Didier, where are you? if you are not killed or eaten, answer me! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you!' "

"What does this mean?" demanded Honorine, while Edmond hung his head and stammered in dire confusion:

"Mon Dieu, mesdames, I beg your pardon most humbly; I remember now that I came here with a friend of mine."

"And you have not thought of him since morning! Oh! the poor fellow!"

"Do not pity him, madame; I arranged to meet him at Gournay, to eat a _matelote_; but it gave me so much pleasure to remain with you----"

"That you left your friend to his own devices."

"He will have eaten his _matelote_ without me--that's all."

"But you see that he is anxious about you, since he is rushing about the country calling you.--Try to overtake this gentleman, Poucette, and bring him back with you; tell him that the person he is looking for is here."

"Very well, madame. I'll find him; he's yelling loud enough, so that you can hear him a long way."

"Really, madame, I abuse your good nature. To compel you to receive my friend----"

"Is he not presentable?"

"I beg pardon; he's a very good fellow,--a little free-and-easy,--I mean, a little eccentric; he is very well circ.u.mstanced, he has a handsome fortune----"

"That is a matter of indifference to us; but it seems that he must be very fond of you, to look for you so energetically."

"Oh! that's because he doesn't want to go back alone."

At that moment Poucette returned with Freluchon, who, as soon as he caught sight of Edmond, exclaimed:

"Ah! so this is the way you treat your friends; and it was to make me pa.s.s a day like Robinson Crusoe, in a horrible place where one doesn't see a living being, that you brought me into the country with you!"

"Freluchon!--don't you see these ladies?"

"Oh! I beg pardon, mesdames; but really that is no way to act; I leave it to these ladies--let them say whether I did wrong to cry aloud.--Imagine, mesdames, that this gentleman, who dares to call me his friend, brought me here almost by force this morning, saying: 'We will have a delightful day; I am going to call on some very charming ladies who live at Ch.e.l.les, but I shall not stay long; go to Gournay and wait for me; order a _matelote_ and I'll be with you at four o'clock.--Very good; I turn to the right when he turns to the left. I find myself in a country which is not unpleasant to look at, perhaps, but where you don't meet a living soul--not a peasant--not an a.s.s--and ordinarily there are a.s.ses everywhere!--Oh! by the way, I did meet some sheep, but no shepherd--I saw only the dog--probably he acts as shepherd too. After walking about for three mortal hours in this desert, somewhat anxious concerning my plight and saying to myself from time to time: 'Can it be that a second Deluge has swept this region?' I returned to the modest cabaret where I had ordered a _matelote_, some fried fish, and even a rabbit _saute_, for I should not believe that I was dining in the country unless I ate rabbit.

"The dinner was ready, but monsieur had not arrived. I waited one, two, three-quarters of an hour, until the _cabaretier_ informed me that the dinner was suffering from the delay. At that, I took my place at the table, thinking that he would come in a moment. I swallowed several pieces of eel--the _matelote_ was good, I must admit that--but he didn't come. I said to myself: 'What's the use of leaving the eel?'--I ate eleven slices of it, mesdames, with fried fish and rabbit in proportion; if I have indigestion, it will be his fault! Eleven slices! and the eel was superb.

"After dinner I left Gournay and set out in quest of my gentleman; for I was really uneasy. I thought that something must have happened to him, that he had fallen into a hole--there are holes everywhere. I reached this hamlet, and, not knowing where you lived, mesdames, I called my friend--in a heartrending voice; no one answered. Faith! then I rang the bell at rather a fine house, with pilasters topped by great b.a.l.l.s tapering to a point. I don't know what style of architecture that is, but I suspect that it's the _Boulette_ style. I rang rather violently, no doubt; and as I continued to call this blackguard--I beg pardon, mesdames, I mean this--scamp--it seems that I alarmed the occupants of the house, and four of them came in a body to open the door; there was one gentleman who was armed, and I saw another dancing in the courtyard.

A tall woman, with the voice of a sapper and miner, said to me:

"'What do you want, monsieur, and why are you making all this uproar at my door?'

"Thereupon I a.s.sumed an affable manner and replied in honeyed tones:

"'Do you happen to have here my friend Edmond Didier, with whom I would like to return to Paris?'