Pride: One of the Seven Cardinal Sins. Эжен Сю

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СКАЧАТЬ coming down the garden walk preceded by Madame Barbançon, who was in such a state of mental perturbation that she had entirely forgotten to remove her big kitchen apron.

CHAPTER III.

       THE DINNER IN THE ARBOUR.

       Table of Contents

      The Duc de Senneterre, who was about Olivier Raymond's age, had a distinguished bearing, and an exceedingly handsome and attractive face, with black hair and moustache, and eyes of a deep rich blue. His attire was marked with an elegant simplicity.

      "Uncle, this is Gerald, my best friend, of whom I have so often spoken," said Olivier.

      "I am delighted to see you, monsieur," said the veteran, cordially offering his hand to his nephew's friend.

      "And I, commander," rejoined Gerald, with that deference to age which is imbibed from prolonged military service, "am sincerely glad to have the honour of pressing your hand. I know all your goodness to Olivier, and as I regard him almost as a brother, you must understand how thoroughly I have always appreciated your devotion to him."

      "Gentlemen, will you have your soup in the house or under the arbour, as you usually do when the weather is fine?" inquired Madame Barbançon.

      "We will dine in the arbour—if the commander approves, my dear Madame Barbançon," responded Gerald; "it will be charming; the afternoon is perfect."

      "Monsieur knows me?" exclaimed the housekeeper, looking first at Olivier, and then at the duke, in great astonishment.

      "Know you, Madame Barbançon?" exclaimed Gerald, gaily. "Why, hasn't Olivier spoken of you a hundred times while we were in camp, and haven't we had more than one quarrel all on your account?"

      "On my account?"

      "Most assuredly. That rascal of an Olivier is a great Bonapartist, you know. He cannot forgive any one for detesting that odious tyrant, and I took your part, for I, too, abhor the tyrant—that vile Corsican ogre!"

      "Corsican ogre! You are a man after my own heart, monsieur. Let us shake hands—we understand each other," cried the housekeeper, triumphantly.

      And she extended her bony hand to Gerald, who shook it heartily, at the same time remarking to the commander:

      "Upon my word, sir, you had better take care, and you, too, Olivier, will have to look out now. Madame Barbançon had no one to help her before, now she will have a sturdy auxiliary in me."

      "Look here, Madame Barbançon," exclaimed Olivier, coming to the rescue of his friend whom the housekeeper seemed inclined to monopolise, "Gerald must be nearly famished, you forget that. Come, I'll help you bring the table out here."

      "True, I had forgotten all about dinner," cried the housekeeper, hastening towards the house.

      Seeing Olivier start after her, as if to aid her, Gerald said:

      "Wait a moment, my dear fellow, do you suppose I'm going to leave all the work to you?"

      Then turning to the commander:

      "You don't object, I trust, commander. I am making very free, I know, but when we were in the army together Olivier and I set the mess-table more than once, so you will find that I'm not as awkward as you might suppose."

      It was a pleasure to see how cleverly and adroitly and gaily Gerald assisted his former comrade in setting the table under the arbour. The task was accomplished so quickly and neatly that one would have supposed that the young duke, like his friend, must have been used to poverty all his life.

      To please his friend, Gerald, in half an hour, made a complete conquest of the veteran and his housekeeper, who was delighted beyond expression to see her anti-Bonapartist ally partake with great apparent enjoyment of her onion soup, salad, and vinaigrette, to which Gerald even asked to be helped twice.

      It is needless to say that, during this cheerful repast, the veteran, delicately led on by Gerald, was induced to talk of his campaigns; then, this tribute of respect paid to their companion's superior years, the two young men related all sorts of episodes of their college and army life.

      The veteran had lighted his pipe, and Gerald and Olivier their cigars, when the latter happened to inquire of his friend:

      "By the way, what has become of that scoundrel, Macreuse, who used to play the spy on us at college? You remember him?—a big, light-haired fellow, who used to cuff us soundly as he passed, just because he dared to, being twice as big as we were."

      At the name of Macreuse, Gerald's face took on an expression of mingled contempt and aversion, and he replied:

      "You speak rather slightingly—M. Célestin de Macreuse, it seems to me."

      "De Macreuse!" cried Olivier. "He must have treated himself to the de since we knew him, then. In those days his origin was shrouded in mystery. Nobody knew anything about his parents. He was so poor that he once ate half a dozen wood-lice to earn a sou."

      "And then he was so horribly cruel," added Gerald; "do you remember his putting those little birds' eyes out with a pin to see if they would fly afterwards?"

      "The scoundrel!" exclaimed the indignant commander. "Such a man as that ought to be flayed alive."

      "It would rejoice my heart to see your prediction fulfilled, commander," said Gerald, laughing. Then, turning to Olivier, he continued: "It will surprise you very much, I think, when I tell you what I know of M. Célestin de Macreuse. I have told you, I believe, how very exclusive the society is in which my mother has always moved, so you can judge of my astonishment when one evening, shortly after my return to Paris, I heard the name of M. de Macreuse announced in my mother's drawing-room. It was the very man. I had retained such an unpleasant recollection of the fellow, that I went to my mother and said:

      "'Why do you receive that man who just spoke to you—that big, light-haired, sallow man?'

      "'Why, that is M. de Macreuse,' my mother replied, in tones indicative of the profoundest respect.

      "'And who is M. de Macreuse, my dear mother? I never saw him in your house before.'

      "'No, for he has just returned from his travels,' she answered. 'He is a very distinguished and highly exemplary young man—the founder of the St. Polycarpe Mission.'

      "'The deuce! And what is the St. Polycarpe Mission, my dear mother?'

      "'It is a society that strives to make the poor resigned to their misery by teaching them that the more they suffer here, the happier they will be hereafter.'

      "'Se non è vero, è ben trovato,' I laughingly remarked. 'But it seems to me that this fellow has a very plump face to be advocating the good effects of starvation.'

      "'My son, I meant every word that I just said to you,' replied my mother, gravely. 'Many highly esteemed persons have connected themselves with M. de Macreuse's work—a work to which he devotes himself with truly evangelical zeal. But here he comes. I would like to introduce you to him.'

      "'Pray СКАЧАТЬ