him in what a decayed condition it had formerly been, and to what a degree of perfection he had raised it.
Arrived in front of the Hôtel de Boulogne, Léon left him abruptly, ran up the stairs, and found his mistress in great excitement. At mention of the chemist she flew into a passion. He, however, piled up good reasons; it wasn’t his fault; didn’t she know Homais—did she believe that he would prefer his company? But she turned away; he drew her back, and, sinking on his knees, clasped her waist with his arms in a languorous pose, full of concupiscence and supplication.
She was standing up, her large flashing eyes looked at him seriously, almost terribly. Then tears obscured them, her red eyelids were lowered, she gave him her hands, and Léon was pressing them to his lips when a servant appeared to tell the gentleman that he was wanted.
“You will come back?” she said.
“Yes.”
“But when?”
“Immediately.”
“It’s a trick,” said the chemist, when he saw Léon. “I wanted to interrupt this visit, that seemed to me to annoy you. Let’s go and have a glass of garus at Bridoux’s.”
Léon vowed that he must get back to his office. Then the druggist joked him about quill-drivers and the law.
“Leave Cujas and Barthole alone a bit. Who the devil prevents you? Be a man! Let’s go to Bridoux’s. You’ll see his dog. It’s very interesting.”
And as the clerk still insisted—