Madame Hochon came out upon her doorstep to welcome her
godchild, and kissed her as though she were really a daughter. After
seventy-two years of a barren and monotonous existence, exhibiting in
their retrospect the graves of her three children, all unhappy in
their lives, and all dead, she had come to feel a sort of fictitious
motherhood for the young girl whom she had, as she expressed it,
carried in her pouch for sixteen years. Through the gloom of
provincial life the old woman had cherished this early friendship,
this girlish memory, as closely as if Agathe had remained near her,
and she had also taken the deepest interest in Bridau. Agathe was led
in triumph to the salon where Monsieur Hochon was stationed, chilling
as a tepid oven.
"Here is Monsieur Hochon; how does he seem to you?" asked his wife.
"Precisely the same as when I last saw him," said the Parisian woman.
"Ah! it is easy to see you come from Paris; you are so complimentary,"
remarked the old man.
The presentations took place: first, young Baruch Borniche, a tall
youth of twenty-two; then Francois Hochon, twenty-four; and lastly
little Adolphine, who blushed and did not know what to do with her
arms; she was anxious not to seem to be looking at Joseph Bridau, who
in his turn was narrowly observed, though from different points of
view, by the two young men and by old Hochon. The miser was saying to
himself, "He is just out of the hospital; he will be as hungry as a
convalescent.
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