On being ushered into Constance’s little yellow salon, Mathieu found her taking a cup of tea with Madame Angelin, who had come back with her from the Rue de Miromesnil.  Beauchene’s unexpected arrival on the scene had disagreeably interrupted their private converse.  He had returned from one of the debauches in which he so frequently indulged under the pretext of making a short business journey, and, still slightly intoxicated, with feverish, sunken eyes and clammy tongue, he was wearying the two women with his impudent, noisy falsehoods.

“Ah! my dear fellow!” he exclaimed on seeing Mathieu, “I was just telling the ladies of my return from Amiens—.  What wonderful duck pates they have there!”

Then, on Mathieu speaking to him of Blaise, he launched out into protestations of friendship.  It was understood, the young fellow need only present himself at the works, and in the first instance he should be put with Morange, in order that he might learn something of the business mechanism of the establishment.  Thus talking, Beauchene puffed and coughed and spat, exhaling meantime the odor of tobacco, alcohol, and musk, which he always brought back from his “sprees,” while his wife smiled affectionately before the others as was her wont, but directed at him glances full of despair and disgust whenever Madame Angelin turned her head.

As Beauchene continued talking too much, owning for instance that he did not know how far the thresher might be from completion, Mathieu noticed Constance listening anxiously.  The idea of Blaise entering the establishment had already rendered her grave, and now her husband’s apparent ignorance of important business matters distressed her.  Besides, the thought of Norine was reviving in her mind; she remembered the girl’s child, and almost feared some fresh understanding between Beauchene and Mathieu.  All at once, however, she gave a cry of great relief:  “Ah! here is Maurice.”

Her son was entering the room—­her son, the one and only god on whom she now set her affection and pride, the crown-prince who to-morrow would become king, who would save the kingdom from perdition, and who would exalt her on his right hand in a blaze of glory.  She deemed him handsome, tall, strong, and as invincible in his nineteenth year as all the knights of the old legends.  When he explained that he had just profitably compromised a worrying transaction in which his father had rashly embarked, she pictured him repairing disasters and achieving victories.  And she triumphed more than ever on hearing him promise that the threshing-machine should be ready before the end of that same week.

“You must take a cup of tea, my dear,” she exclaimed.  “It would do you good; you worry your mind too much.”

Maurice accepted the offer, and gayly replied:  “Oh! do you know, an omnibus almost crushed me just now in the Rue de Rivoli!”

At this his mother turned livid, and the cup which she held escaped from her hand.  Ah!  God, was her happiness at the mercy of an accident?  Then once again the fearful threat sped by, that icy gust which came she knew not whence, but which ever chilled her to her bones.