Almost any one would have lost countenance. But M. Costeclar was so little put out, that it seemed as though he had expected just such a reception. He turned upon his heels, and advanced towards M. Favoral's friends with a smile so engaging as to make it evident that he was anxious to conquer their suff rages.
This was at the beginning of the month of June, 1870. No one as yet could foresee the frightful disasters which were to mark the end of that fatal year. And yet there was everywhere in France that indefinable anxiety which precedes great social convulsions.
The plebiscitum had not succeeded in restoring confidence. Every day the most alarming rumors were put in circulation and it was with a sort of passion that people went in quest of news.
Now, M. Costeclar was a wonderfully well-posted man. He had, doubtless, on his way, stopped on the Boulevard des Italiens, that blessed ground where nightly the street-brokers labor for the financial prosperity of the country. He had gone through the Passage de l'Opera, which is, as is well known, the best market for the most correct and the most reliable news. Therefore he might safely be believed.
Placing his hack to the chimney, he had taken the lead in the conversation; and he was talking, talking, talking. Being a "bull," he took a favorable view of every thing. He believed in the eternity of the second empire. He sang the praise of the new cabinet: he was ready to pour out his blood for Emile Ollivier.
True, some people complained that business was dull and slow; but those people, he thought, were merely "bears." Business had never been so brilliant. At no time had prosperity been greater. Capital was abundant. The institutions of credit were flourishing.
Securities were rising. Everybody's pockets were full to bursting.
And the others listened in astonishment to this inexhaustible prattle, this "gab," more filled with gold spangles than Dantzig cordial, with which the commercial travelers of the bourse catch their customers.
Suddenly:
"But you must excuse me," he said, rushing towards the other end of the parlor.
Mme. Favoral had just left the room to order tea to be brought in; and, the seat by Mlle. Gilberte being vacant, M. Costeclar occupied it promptly.
"He understands his business," growled M. Desormeaux.
Surely," said M. Desclavettes, "If I had some funds to dispose of just now."
"I would be most happy to have him for my son-in-law," declared M.
Favoral.
He was doing his best. Somewhat intimidated by Mlle. Gilberte's first look, he had now fully recovered his wits.
He commenced by sketching his own portrait.
He had just turned thirty, and had experienced the strong and the weak side of life. He had had "successes," but had tired of them.
Having gauged the emptiness of what is called pleasure, he only wished now to find a partner for life, whose graces and virtues would secure his domestic happiness.
He could not help noticing the absent look of the young girl; but he had, thought he, other means of compelling her attention. And he went on, saying that he felt himself cast of the metal of which model husbands are made. His plans were all made in advance. His wife would be free to do as she pleased. She would have her own carriage and horses, her box at the Italiens and at the Opera, and an open account at Worth's and Van Klopen's. As to diamonds, he would take care of that. He meant that his wife's display of wealth should be noticed; and even spoken of in the newspapers.
Was this the terms of a bargain that he was offering?
If so, it was so coarsely, that Mlle. Gilberte, ignorant of life as she was, wondered in what world it might be that he had met with so many "successes." And, somewhat indignantly:
"Unfortunately," she said, "the bourse is perfidious; and the man who drives his own carriage to-day, to-morrow may have no shoes to wear."
M. Costeclar nodded with a smile.
"Exactly so," said he. "A marriage protects one against such reverses."
"Every man in active business, when he marries, settles upon his wife reasonable fortune. I expect to settle six hundred thousand francs upon mine."
"So that, if you were to meet with an - accident?"
"We should enjoy our thirty thousand a year under the very nose of the creditors."
Blushing with shame, Mlle. Gilberte rose.
"But then," said she, "it isn't a wife that you are looking for: it is an accomplice."
He was spared the embarrassment of an answer, by the servant, who came in, bringing in tea. He accepted a cup; and after two or three anecdotes, judging that he had done enough for a first visit, he withdrew, and a moment later they heard his carriage driving off at full gallop.