“Bernard Jansoulet, Deputy for Corsica.”
A public man!
Only then did he remember that he was one. Who
would have suspected it, seeing him breathless and
bare-headed, like a porter after a street fight, under
the eager, coldly mocking glances of the crowd?
If you want simple and sincere feeling, if you would
see overflowing affection, tenderness, laughter—the
laughter born of great happiness which, at a tiny
movement of the lips, is brought to the verge of tears—and
the beautiful wild joy of youth illumined by bright
eyes transparent to the very depths of the souls behind
them—all these things you may find this
Sunday morning in a house that you know of, a new
house, down yonder, right at the end of the old faubourg.
The glass door on the ground floor shines more brightly
than usual. More gaily than ever dance the letters
over the door, and from the open windows comes the
sound of glad cries, flowing from a stream of happiness.
“Accepted! it is accepted! Oh, what good
luck! Henriette, Elise, do come here! M.
Maranne’s play is accepted!”
Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhac, the
manager of the Nouveautes, sent for him to
inform him that his play was to be produced immediately—that
it would be put on next month. They passed the
evening discussing scenic arrangements and the distribution
of parts; and, as it was too late to knock at his
neighbour’s door when he got home from the theatre,
the happy author waited for the morning in feverish
impatience, and then, as soon as he heard people stirring
below and the shutters open with a click against the
house-front, he made haste to go down to announce
the good news to his friends. Just now they are
all assembled together, the young ladies in pretty
deshabille, their hair hastily twisted up,
and M. Joyeuse, whom the announcement had surprised
in the midst of shaving, presenting under his embroidered
night-cap a strange face divided into two parts, one
side shaved, the other not. But Andre Maranne
is the most excited, for you know what the acceptance
of Revolt means for him; what was agreed between
them and Bonne Maman. The poor fellow looks at
her as if to find an encouragement in her eyes; and
the rather mischievous, kind eyes seem to say, “Make
the experiment, in any case. What is the risk?”
To give himself courage he looks also at Mlle.
Elise, pretty as a flower, with her long eyelashes
drooped. At last, making up his mind:
“M. Joyeuse,” said he thickly, “I
have a very serious communication to make to you.”
M. Joyeuse expresses astonishment.
“A communication? Ah, mon Dieu,
you alarm me!”
And lowering his voice:
“Are the girls in the way?”
“No. Bonne Maman knows what I mean.
Mlle. Elise also must have some suspicion of
it. It is only the children.”
