“What do you think of all this, Monsieur Hochon?” said the old lady when Gritte had departed.

Madame Hochon made Agathe observe her husband, who was sitting with his head in his hands, his elbows on the arms of his chair, plunged in thought.

“You have to do with a Maitre Bonin!” said the old man at last.  “With your ideas, young man,” he added, looking at Joseph, “you haven’t force enough to struggle with a practised scoundrel like Maxence Gilet.  No matter what I say to you, you will commit some folly.  But, at any rate, tell me everything you see, and hear, and do to-night.  Go, and God be with you!  Try to get alone with your uncle.  If, in spite of all your genius, you can’t manage it, that in itself will throw some light upon their scheme.  But if you do get a moment alone with him, out of ear-shot, damn it, you must pull the wool from his eyes as to the situation those two have put him in, and plead your mother’s cause.”

CHAPTER XII

At four o’clock, Joseph crossed the open space which separated the Rouget house from the Hochon house,—­a sort of avenue of weakly lindens, two hundred feet long and of the same width as the rue Grande Narette.  When the nephew arrived, Kouski, in polished boots, black cloth trousers, white waistcoat, and black coat, announced him.  The table was set in the large hall, and Joseph, who easily distinguished his uncle, went up to him, kissed him, and bowed to Flore and Max.

“We have not seen each other since I came into the world, my dear uncle,” said the painter gayly; “but better late than never.”

“You are very welcome, my friend,” said the old man, looking at his nephew in a dull way.

“Madame,” Joseph said to Flore with an artist’s vivacity, “this morning I was envying my uncle the pleasure he enjoys in being able to admire you every day.”

“Isn’t she beautiful?” said the old man, whose dim eyes began to shine.

“Beautiful enough to be the model of a great painter.”

“Nephew,” said Rouget, whose elbow Flore was nudging, “this is Monsieur Maxence Gilet; a man who served the Emperor, like your brother, in the Imperial Guard.”

Joseph rose, and bowed.

“Your brother was in the dragoons, I believe,” said Maxence.  “I was only a dust-trotter.”

“On foot or on horseback,” said Flore, “you both of you risked your skins.”

Joseph took note of Max quite as much as Max took note of Joseph.  Max, who got his clothes from Paris, was dressed as the young dandies of that day dressed themselves.  A pair of light-blue cloth trousers, made with very full plaits, covered his feet so that only the toes and the spurs of his boots were seen.  His waist was pinched in by a white waistcoat with chased gold buttons, which was laced behind to serve as a belt.  The waistcoat, buttoned to the throat, showed off his broad chest, and a black satin stock obliged him to hold his head high, in soldierly fashion.  A handsome gold chain hung from a waistcoat pocket, in which the outline of a flat watch was barely seen.  He was twisting a watch-key of the kind called a “criquet,” which Breguet had lately invented.