"Oh, what can
I do for you? I can only pray--"
"I and Monsieur le Duc d'Herouville," the singer said, "a noble soul,
a true gentleman--" and Josepha related the settling and _marriage_ of
Monsieur Thoul.
"And so, thanks to you, mademoiselle, the Baron has wanted nothing?"
"We have done our best to that end, madame."
"And where is he now?"
"About six months ago, Monsieur le Duc told me that the Baron, known
to the notary by the name of Thoul, had drawn all the eight thousand
francs that were to have been paid to him in fixed sums once a
quarter," replied Josepha. "We have heard no more of the Baron,
neither I nor Monsieur d'Herouville. Our lives are so full, we artists
are so busy, that I really have not time to run after old Thoul. As it
happens, for the last six months, Bijou, who works for me--his--what
shall I say--?"
"His mistress," said Madame Hulot.
"His mistress," repeated Josepha, "has not been here. Mademoiselle
Olympe Bijou is perhaps divorced. Divorce is common in the thirteenth
arrondissement."
Josepha rose, and foraging among the rare plants in her stands, made a
charming bouquet for Madame Hulot, whose expectations, it may be said,
were by no means fulfilled. Like those worthy fold, who take men of
genius to be a sort of monsters, eating, drinking, walking, and
speaking unlike other people, the Baroness had hoped to see Josepha
the opera singer, the witch, the amorous and amusing courtesan; she
saw a calm and well-mannered woman, with the dignity of talent, the
simplicity of an actress who knows herself to be at night a queen, and
also, better than all, a woman of the town whose eyes, attitude, and
demeanor paid full and ungrudging homage to the virtuous wife, the
_Mater dolorosa_ of the sacred hymn, and who was crowning her sorrows
with flowers, as the Madonna is crowned in Italy.
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