CHAPTER LXXIX
THE LEMONADE
ORREL was, in fact, very happy. Noirtier had just sent for him, and he was in such haste to know the reason of his doing so that he had not stopped to take a fiacre, placing infinitely more dependence on his own two legs than on the four legs of a cab-horse. He had, therefore, set off at a run from the Rue Mesley, and was hastening with rapid strides in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
Morrel advanced "at the double," and poor Barrois followed him as he best might; Morrel was only thirty-one, Barrois was sixty years of age; Morrel was in love, and Barrois was dying with heat. These two men, thus opposed in age and interests, resembled two sides of a triangle, parted at the base, but uniting at the apex. This point of union was Noirtier, and it was he who had just sent for Morrel, with the request that he would lose no time in coming to him—a command which Morrel obeyed to the letter, to the great discomfiture of Barrois. On arriving at the house, Morrel was not even out of breath, for love lends wings; but Barrois, who had long forgotten what it was to love, was exhausted.
The old servant introduced Morrel by a private entrance, closed the door of the study, and soon the rustling of a dress announced the arrival of Valentine. She looked marvelously beautiful in her deep mourning dress, and so fair was the dream that Morrel could almost have dispensed with the conversation of her grandfather.
But the easy-chair of the old man was heard rolling along the floor, and he soon made his appearance in the room. Noirtier acknowledged by a look of extreme kindness the thanks which Morrel lavished on him for his timely intervention on behalf of Valentine and himself—an intervention which had saved them from despair. Morrel then cast on
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