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Finally Monjardin arose and unfolded a manuscript, asking permission to declaim the verses which he had composed in honor of Maria-José, the central figure of the occasion. The guests greeted his remarks with noisy and enthusiastic approbation. "Hear! Hear!" Engracigna and her daughters leaned over and cast malicious glances in the direction of Maria-José, but she was paying no attention to them.
Finding the conversation of Fabio's wife and daughters too commonplace, Monjardin, when he would recite some of his poems or tell some story connected with his literary life, preferred to address Maria-José, whom he saw to be of a serious and impressive nature. "Let's have another poem, please, Mr. Monjardin!" she would ask in supplicating tone.
Seated directly across from Monjardin, Maria-José, hiding her glances behind the fruit-bowls that covered the table, looked at him furtively without surfeit. Her poor heart beat as if it would burst, waiting in agonized suspense for the poem in which the poet, without doubt, was to declare his intimate feelings for her.
Monjardin had already pointed to his pocket as a token that he had the verses with him, and Zézé had trembled with gratification as she bashfully lowered her long face. Champagne sparkled in the glasses and toasts were given. Several guests of distinction spoke first, then followed the hosts and their children, frolicsome little things.
Her ears were buzzing; it seemed that everything was turning round. Monjardin, the center of all eyes, made pompous preparation; he pulled down his vest, arranged his sleeves and, in sonorous, cadenced voice began to recite his alexandrines, scanning the lines impeccably.
Older than she, almost forty, but having preserved all the attractiveness of youth, a black moustache, a vigorous, yet graceful figure, eyes still bright, charming and wide-awake, Monjardin, without knowing it, had conquered Zézé. This had come about in a rather curious manner.
Finally they raised Maria-José's head and bathed it in cool water; whereupon the face of the poor old maid stood revealed in all the ugliness that her spasms of convulsive weeping cast over it, with her large aquiline nose, her protruding eyes and her livid lips ... And now Monjardin drew near.
In vain did her eyes seek in the eyes of another that expression of sympathy and tenderness which alone would console her.... The truth is that Maria-José was suffering from the disappointment of unrequited passion. She had fallen in love with Monjardin, a poet and great friend of her brother-in-law, Fabio. Monjardin came to the house every Sunday.
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