And it was no longer Seguin, the idler, the
artisan of nothingness, whom Mathieu came to see there, it was his own
son Ambroise, a man of creative energy, whose victory had been sought by
the very forces of life, which had made him triumph there, installed him
as the master in the home of the vanquished.
When Mathieu and Denis arrived Ambroise was absent, but was expected home
for lunch. They waited for him, and as the former again crossed the
ante-room the better to judge of some new arrangements that had been
made, he was surprised at being stopped by a lady who was sitting there
patiently, and whom he had not previously noticed.
"I see that Monsieur Froment does not recognize me," she said.
Mathieu made a vague gesture. The woman had a tall, plump figure, and was
certainly more than sixty years of age; but she evidently took care of
her person, and had a smiling mien, with a long, full face and almost
venerable white hair. One might have taken her for some worthy,
well-to-do provincial bourgeoise in full dress.
"Celeste," said she. "Celeste, Madame Seguin's former maid."
Thereupon he fully recognized her, but hid his stupefaction at finding
her so fortunately circumstanced at the close of her career.
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