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Updated: June 4, 2025
The rattle of plates, the sound of voices, and of music softly played, made an incessant deep hum, and was dispersed abroad in the clear sky where the swallows were flying. Mme. Husson occasionally readjusted her black wig, which would slip over on one side, and chatted with Abbe Malon.
In ten minutes Pierrotin had discharged the various packages of the painter, the bundles of Oscar Husson, and the pretty little leather portmanteau, which he took from its nest of hay and confided mysteriously to the wife of the concierge.
Her reputed father was a scullion, her mother a sempstress. For grandfather she had Fabien Bécu, who left his frying-pans in a Paris kitchen to lead Jeanne Husson, a fellow-servant, to the altar.
No one, among the most sceptical, most incredulous, would have been able, would have dared, to suspect Isidore of the slightest infraction of any law of morality. He had never been seen in a cafe, never been seen at night on the street. He went to bed at eight o'clock and rose at four. He was a perfection, a pearl. But Mme. Husson still hesitated.
"Mamma," he said, "here are the two artists sent down by Monsieur Schinner." Madame Moreau, agreeably surprised, rose, told her son to place chairs, and began to display her graces. "Mamma, the Husson boy is with papa," added the lad; "shall I fetch him?" "You need not hurry; go and play with him," said his mother.
"Monsieur is not an ambassador, but his rosette tells us he has made his way nobly; my brother and General Giroudeau have repeatedly named him in their reports." "Oscar Husson!" cried Georges. "Faith! if it hadn't been for your voice I should never have known you."
No one, among the most sceptical, most incredulous, would have been able, would have dared, to suspect Isidore of the slightest infraction of any law of morality. He had never been seen in a cafe, never been seen at night on the street. He went to bed at eight o'clock and rose at four. He was a perfection, a pearl. But Mme. Husson still hesitated.
Then the mayor placed in one hand a silk purse in which gold tingled five hundred francs in gold! and in his other hand a savings bank book. And he said in a solemn tone: "Homage, glory and riches to virtue." Commandant Desbarres shouted "Bravo!" the grenadiers vociferated, and the crowd applauded. Mme. Husson wiped her eyes, in her turn.
Madame Husson, at last a widow, was as little recognizable as her son. Clapart, a victim of Fieschi's machine, had served his wife better by death than by all his previous life. The idle lounger was hanging about, as usual, on the boulevard du Temple, gazing at the show, when the explosion came.
Husson a good deal, and she hesitated some time between the black coat of those who make their first communion and an entire white suit. But Francoise, her counsellor, induced her to decide on the white suit, pointing out that the Rosier would look like a swan. Behind him came his guardian, his godmother, Mme. Husson, in triumph.
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