“What a noise you are making, Georges!” said he.  “Cards, if you please, Prefect.”

“But, General, the fact is that I feel, I will not conceal from you, a certain degree of emotion and—­”

“The king-one-and four trumps.  My dear friend, you are not in luck,” said he to the prefect, and pulling up with an effort the white waistcoat covering his stomach, he slipped some louis which were on the table L931 into his fob; then bethinking himself, he added:  “In fact, my poor fellow, you think yourself bound to keep us company.  It is late and we have three leagues to cover from here to B. Every one has left, too.”

At last he departed.  I can still see his thick neck, the back of which formed a roll of fat over his ribbon of the Legion of Honor.  I heard him get into his carriage; he was still laughing at intervals.  I could have thrashed him.

“At last!” I said to myself; “at last!” I mechanically glanced at myself in the glass.  I was crimson, and my boots, I am ashamed to say, were horribly uncomfortable.  I was furious that such a grotesque detail as tight boots should at such a moment have power to attract my attention; but I promised to be sincere, and I am telling you the whole truth.

Just then the clock struck one, and my mother-in-law made her appearance.  Her eyes were red, and her ungloved hand was crumpling up a handkerchief visibly moistened.

At the sight of her my first movement was one of impatience.  I said to myself, “I am in for a quarter of an hour of it at least.”

Indeed, Madame de C. sank down on a couch, took my hand, and burst into tears.  Amid her sobs she ejaculated, “Georges—­my dear boy—­Georges—­my son.”

I felt that I could not rise to the occasion.  “Come, Captain,” I said to myself, “a tear; squeeze forth a tear.  You can not get out of this becomingly without a tear, or it will be, ’My son-in-law, it is all off.’”

When this stupid phrase, derived from I do not know where—­a Palais Royal farce, I believe—­had once got into my head, it was impossible for me to get rid of it, and I felt bursts of wild merriment welling up to my lips.

“Calm yourself, Madame; calm yourself.”

“How can I, Georges?  Forgive me, my dear boy.”

“Can you doubt me, Madame?”

I felt that “Madame” was somewhat cold, but I was afraid of making Madame de C. seem old by calling her “mother.”  I knew her to be somewhat of a coquette.

“Oh, I do not doubt your affection; go, my dear boy, go and make her happy; yes, oh, yes!  Fear nothing on my account; I am strong.”

Nothing is more unbearable than emotion when one does not share it.  I murmured “Mother!” feeling that after all she must appreciate such an outburst; then approaching, I kissed her, and made a face in spite of myself—­such a salt and disagreeable flavor had been imparted to my mother-in-law’s countenance by the tears she had shed.