Michonneau, and so
artlessly revealed that he was in two minds whether to go or stay,
that the boarders, in their joy at being quit of Mlle. Michonneau,
burst out laughing at the sight of him.
"Hist!--st!--st! Poiret," shouted the painter. "Hallo! I say, Poiret,
hallo!" The _employe_ from the Museum began to sing:
"Partant pour la Syrie,
Le jeune et beau Dunois . . ."
"Get along with you; you must be dying to go, _trahit sua quemque
voluptas!_" said Bianchon.
"Every one to his taste--free rendering from Virgil," said the tutor.
Mlle. Michonneau made a movement as if to take Poiret's arm, with an
appealing glance that he could not resist. The two went out together,
the old maid leaning upon him, and there was a burst of applause,
followed by peals of laughter.
"Bravo, Poiret!"
"Who would have thought it of old Poiret!"
"Apollo Poiret!"
"Mars Poiret!"
"Intrepid Poiret!"
A messenger came in at that moment with a letter for Mme. Vauquer, who
read it through, and collapsed in her chair.
"The house might as well be burned down at once," cried she, "if there
are to be any more of these thunderbolts! Young Taillefer died at
three o'clock this afternoon.
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