M. Raindal reached the station fifteen minutes before the departure of
the train which was to take him to Les Frettes. He paced the platform,
thinking.
Most of the carriages were empty. On the deserted platform he saw not a
porter, not a truck; it stretched out, an endless carpet of asphalt. The
glass roof refracted a dark, heavy heat. It was that hour of semi-rest,
between the end of morning and the beginning of afternoon, when
everything seems to be dozing in the railway stations, apart from the
engines, the men, the wagons and the goods.
M. Raindal walked with his head down, his hands clasped behind his back,
his big white panama hat set slightly at the back of his head. One by
one he recalled the previous days, the painful ten days' siege from
which he had come out at last victorious, although confused, worn-out
and wounded. At times he sighed at the thought of it.
The week had surely been a painful one! Twenty meals of sulky silence,
shifty glances and contrite looks! In between, never a word; a
speechless war of resistances which clashed without coming to a close
contact; a strained parody of ease in the midst of utter discomfort.
Then, on the eve of his departure, one hour before the women were to
leave for Langrune, the last battle had been fought: Thérèse and Mme.
Raindal had abdicated all pride, affectionately begged M. Raindal to
follow them, and attempted to give him a supreme counsel. A little more
and he would have given way. His refusals were softened; the chains of
his promise were breaking apart. A careless admission on the part of
Thérèse had changed the issue of the battle.
"Well, I admit it, father!" she had said in answer to the master's
charge. "We might, after all, have shown ourselves less openly hostile
to Mme. Chambannes, less cold perhaps when you described her receptions
to us."
That admission had moved him to a new resentment, bringing back an angry
memory of all their previous malice.
"Ha! you acknowledge it now!" he exclaimed. "Now that you see me firm in
my decision, now that you realize the extent of your faults.... And you
wish me to add to those one more discourtesy, you want me to break my
word to Mme. Chambannes who is waiting for me.... Too late! You should
have thought of all this sooner."
He had gone on mumbling indistinct and vindictive recriminations.
Intimate arguments supported him. What if he were to listen to these two
women--would it not mean that the same thing would have to be gone
through again on his return? No, they stood in need of a little lesson,
of an exemplary warning!... Brigitte had closed the debate when she
came in to announce the arrival of the carriage from the station. They
had exchanged icy kisses from the tips of their lips, with hurried
promises to write every week and to meet again in September. The door
had banged. The sound of heavy wheels came from the street. M. Raindal
had been left alone, delivered, saved from going to Langrune.
* * * * *
Still walking up and down, the master sighed. He had now no great
illusion concerning the seriousness of that parting. How many _ménages_
survived such outbursts! The malice of outsiders took a share in them
and exasperated the disagreements. Grievances were sharpened by distance
and were sharper on return; when people met again, they were almost
enemies.
Why! Should he have submitted to the tyranny which his wife and daughter
tried to impose upon him? Should he have sacrificed a precious sympathy,
an exceptional friendship, to their envy and prejudice? Ought he to have
blindly bent himself to their orders, as if he were repenting of some
guilt, instead of opposing them with the firmness of his innocence?
"Passengers for Mantes, Maisons--Lafitte, Poissy, Villedouillet, les
Mureaux, take your seats!" proclaimed a guard.
M. Raindal climbed into a carriage. An old attendant closed the door
after him. The master noticed in the man a likeness to Uncle Cyprien. He
grunted:
"Another one who will not bother me any more!"
He settled in a corner of the carriage, took off his hat, his relaxed
frame all ready for a doze. The thought of Cyprien kept him awake a few
minutes. He had, until the last minutes, dreaded his brother's lectures,
anathemas and curses. But no such outbursts had come. On the eve of his
departure, Cyprien had dined with them and expressed no violent opinion
whatsoever on hearing from the master's own lips of the dual vacation
which was to split the family. All he had done was to risk a harmless
jest: "So then, my friends, you are to be bifurcated! Bah! If it suits
your taste.... It does rest one, after seeing each other all the year
round."
He had seemed almost ill at ease, kept his eyes on his plate and only
reassumed his good humor when they had left the table.... A queer
fellow, Cyprien, a foamy brain, any suspicion on his part was out of the
question.
This contemptuous judgment fully satisfied the master. He gradually fell
into slumber and did not wake up until he reached Villedouillet station.
Mme. Chambannes was on the platform, wearing a dress of batiste,
embroidered with pink flowers, and white kid shoes. She waved to him
with her sunshade, then followed the train until it came to a stop.
Standing at the entrance of his carriage, she smiled at the master as he
climbed down the stiff steps.
"So your wife and daughter did not want to come?" she asked
maliciously, after the first words of greetings had been exchanged.
"No, my dear friend! I could not persuade them.... Besides, I didn't
insist very much.... The sea air is very good for Thérèse."
"They must hate me! You must admit it!"
M. Raindal blushed and affected to chuckle.
"Well, well! I would not like to say that this departure took place
without some objections on both sides.... These two women have their own
views ... and I have mine.... You know, they don't always coincide."
Then he added more boastfully:
"However, they are in the habit of respecting my will and, after all,
the parting was better than I had feared, despite the regrettable scene
which I mentioned briefly to you in Paris.... At all events, here I
am.... Isn't that the only thing that matters?"
There was a pause. Zozé, a sarcastic and thoughtful expression on her
face, stood outside the station. A yellow-painted governess carriage,
with a bay pony, its mane close-clipped, stood against the curb. Firmin,
who stood at the head of the pony, discreetly greeted the master.
"Here, Firmin!" said Mme. Chambannes. "Keep M. Raindal's check.... You
will look after his luggage and bring it along in the trap I ordered
from the livery man."
She settled herself in the carriage, sitting sidewise, facing the tail
of the horse. She took up the reins. The master sat opposite her. Zozé
caressed the flanks of the pony with a light touch of her whip. The
carriage ran down the inclined station-yard, pitching at the shock of
the uneven stones. A few lookers-on stood on the edge of the pavement
and smiled half-jeeringly as they watched it go.
* * * * *
In less than fifteen minutes the carriage entered the graveled avenue
which led to the front steps of Les Frettes. Trees made a frame on each
side of it; suddenly the house appeared. It was a large modern building
with white walls broken at two or three windows by brown blinds.
There was a wide lawn in front with beds of roses, dahlias and mixed
phlox in the corners. Behind, the park began at once. It was dark,
thick-leaved, endless apparently, and ran for a long distance alongside
the state road separated from it by a wall.
Right and left of the house, more trees linked their branches, hiding
the country beyond, forming a thick enclosure as far as the back of the
building, around another lawn which was like a little field and
contained a tennis court with the net hanging slack. To "enjoy the
view," as Mme. Chambannes said, one had to go up to the second floor.
"Your room is on that floor, dear master, and on the side looking right
over the tennis lawn.... A superb view, as you will see."
M. Raindal followed her up the stairs, which were filled with an odor of
iris.
Zozé pushed the window open. A great gust of soft wind entered. The
master leaned on the balcony and for a long time contemplated the
scenery.
Beyond the trees began the immensity of the apparently limitless lower
plain. The villages with their belfries seemed like so many topographic
points marked, as on a map, with childish signs. To the left, the little
hills opposite curved their slopes in a chess-board effect of yellow,
brown and green vegetation. At the bottom one could not see but one
could guess the presence of the Seine river, a loop of which sparkled
like a pruning-hook.
"Isn't it pretty?" said Mme. Chambannes who, with her plump elbow,
touched that of the master on the railing of the balcony.
"Very beautiful!" declared the master.
And he murmured, turning his glance to Zozé:
"I am very happy, my dear friend, very happy to be near you!"
She thanked him with a candid smile on her profile. In this full light,
the clearness of her complexion was enlivened. It showed subtle shades
finely superposed in a diaphanous blend. The light of day penetrated her
batiste blouse and a pale rose reflection breathed under the material.
M. Raindal was enumerating all these charms to himself. Unwittingly, he
was little by little pressing his elbow against that of the young woman.
He was even going to seize the hand of his little pupil--always a
perilous operation which he never risked unless moved by a sudden
audacious impulse--but the door was unexpectedly opened.
Aunt Panhias entered, escorted by a servant who carried M. Raindal's
trunk on his shoulder.
From that time, until the next morning, the master and Zozé were never
alone. When the trunk was opened, visits began: Mme. Herschstein, Mme.
Silberschmidt, with one of her cousins from Breslau, and, at five, the
abbé Touronde.
They all gathered at that time, in the shelter of a shady glade which
opened on the park, not far from the entrance and on the side of the
main path. It was surrounded with lime trees and forest trees not yet
grown to their full height. In the center of this circular space stood a
mushroom-shaped stone table. Tea was brought in, with cakes and iced
fruit in champagne which Zozé served with a small gilt ladle.
The women sat in comfortable reed armchairs which presented this
inconvenience, however, that they squeaked under the weight of people
who were too heavy. M. Raindal preferred a strong rocking-chair, the
balancing of which amused him.
The conversation was kept up, light and easy, until the return of Uncle
Panhias who came back from Paris about 6.30. The abbé Touronde, as he
left, secured the master's promise that he would come and visit his
orphanage in the course of the week.
When the dinner was finished, M. Raindal asked leave to retire. He was,
he said, tired out by this first day of settling down. Mme. Chambannes
encouraged him to go and rest.
He inspected his room, however, before going to bed. Everything had been
arranged with a perfect refinement of country elegance: from the
furniture of ash-wood with copper handles to the bed and window curtains
of English cretonne and the sachets of lavender scattered about the
drawers and on the shelves of the mirrored wardrobe.
The bedclothes smelt of iris, a coarser iris, but more wholesome than
that personally used by Zozé. M. Raindal sniffed persistently at this
unusual scent which bathed his body; then he blew out his candle.
He was going to sleep. The sound of footsteps above caused him to open
his eyes in spite of the utter darkness about him. Who was it? His
little pupil, his dear friend? What a flattering and rare pleasure it
was to sleep under the same roof with her! The master tossed about
several times in his bed. A thousand tempestuous and uncertain images
showed Zozé to him. He sighed and grew impatient in this captivating
sleeplessness. The fresh air, very likely, the stimulation of the fresh
air! At last, he made up his mind about it. Lying on his back, he
contemplated, without resisting them, the procession of his feverish
reveries. They were beginning to assume a more distinct shape than was
altogether seemly when fortunately sleep came and swept them all away.
* * * * *
The next morning, about ten, Mme. Chambannes proposed a ride to the
master. They left the house, with Anselme, the coachman, who sat,
despite the bumps of the road, stiff and respectful, in the corner of
the little carriage, near the case destined for umbrellas.
The morning was clear and fresh, of that August freshness, still cool
between the previous day's heat and that of the coming hours, but a
summer freshness all the same, reassuring and with no chilly signs of
any forthcoming cold spell.
Zozé drove with high hands, her eyes free, turning aside according to
the conversation, while the pony trotted with all its speed, swinging
his back.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the road which climbed under trees
towards the tiny forest of Verneuil. Instinctively, the pony slowed its
pace. Huge horse-flies scattered under its feet, others stuck greedily
to its neck and its fat shiny flanks.
The wood showed a diversity of the most harmonious colors. Broken by
daylight here and there, it would seem all white with rows of slender
silver birches. Further on were spaces that were wholly pink, invaded by
the wild briar. A dark mass of pines dominated everything, clarified
only by the growth of the young, light green, pine-needles. The wind had
scattered many of the older ones and they lay drying in the dust.
On returning, they stopped by the side of the road which cut the wood.
Anselme spread out a rug on the ground, and the master sat there with
Mme. Chambannes. Zozé apologized for taking out her cigarette-case. In
the country, etiquette might be relaxed, might it not? And then they
were in a little wood where they could meet no one.
Hardly had she said this when two young cyclists appeared. They were
pedaling in a leisurely way, side by side. At once, M. Raindal angrily
recalled his intolerant brother Cyprien.
The two young men winked slyly at each other, indicating Zozé. "Pretty!"
the nearer of the two said distinctly.
This familiar remark further provoked M. Raindal.
"Cad!" he said, when the two cyclists had passed on.
"Why?" asked Zozé, blowing out her smoke. "One must not take offense for
so little, in the country."
Those three words constituted her favorite motto at Les Frettes, a
permanent justification for all the fantasies of dress and behavior
which her gloom and her idleness invented.
She took advantage of it, the next morning, to dispense with Anselme's
services for their ride. The coachman's presence had obviously paralyzed
M. Raindal.
"A very good idea!" the master said approvingly, as soon as they had
started. "Besides he was of no use at all, that fellow."
Thereupon he seized his little pupil's hand so brusquely and violently
that Notpou--such was the almost Egyptian-sounding name which Mme.
Chambannes had bestowed upon her pony--shied with fear, under the pain
from his suddenly pulled bit.
"You must keep quiet, dear master?" Zozé chided, as she brought the
animal back to its pace. "You are scaring Notpou.... You'll have us
tipped over!"
"It was such a long time!" M. Raindal stammered.
She smiled indulgently. Suddenly emboldened, the master asked, in the
absent-minded tone he used on such occasions:
"And the Messrs. de Meuze?... Did you have any news from them?"
Mme. Chambannes replied, making an effort to repress the blood she felt
rushing to her face:
"None!... I believe that they are at Deauville until the end of the
month, as I told you last week.... They were to arrive there the day
before I left Paris."
M. Raindal, his hands hanging, directed a studious look at her.
"In that case, they are not coming here?"
"Not that I know of, during August," Zozé replied, having almost
conquered her blush. "After that, it will be the shooting season.... So
... you see!"
"Quite!" the master murmured, while in his heart he ragingly abused
Thérèse.
Ah! how he wished she were here, for an instant only, so that she could
hear this! That was the way people made accusations and spread calumny,
without proofs, acting upon suspicions and uncertain jealousies! "A
woman who publicly gave herself a lover!" M. Raindal repeated to
himself. Publicly! A lover! Where?... At Deauville, perhaps! (For,
gradually, the master had narrowed down his suspicions and centered
their watchfulness upon the head of Gerald, the only young man, after
all, whom Mme. Chambannes saw frequently.) Yes! At Deauville, fifty
leagues from Les Frettes, neglecting his love affair for a month and
even more! A fine lover indeed!... How mean and unfair people were! He
let out a contemptuous laugh.
"Are you laughing, dear master?" Mme. Chambannes inquired.
"I am laughing," he replied between two kisses, "I am laughing at the
wickedness, or more exactly at the stupidity of mankind!"
* * * * *
The daily schedule soon became regular. Whenever the heat did not
prevent it, the morning was spent in driving.
They eschewed the fashionable places beyond Poissy, in the neighborhood
of Saint Germain. They preferred to follow the course of the Seine,
driving towards Poutoise or even Mantes, an uneven, hilly and often
imposing region which attracted the master, as it had Mme. Chambannes.
There the wind rolled its ample currents over plateaux and hills,
carrying a strong taste reminiscent of the sea. Sometimes, at the top of
a shut-in road that climbed under the shady trees, an unexpected
perspective disclosed enormous expanses, forests, cross-roads, the
breadth of the river, a big village, oxen in a field, vine on a
hill-side, in short, the whole unexpected complexity of the provincial
countryside, far from Paris and its suburbs.
The master and Mme. Chambannes would leave about nine and not return
until time for lunch. Some days, in order to prevent idle gossip, they
took the abbé Touronde with them. M. Raindal and the priest occupied one
seat and Zozé, who was driving, the other.
One Thursday, the three of them went as far as Mantes, where the master
wished to purchase a pair of brown shoes; their arrival caused a
sensation. The strange carriage, the piquant attractiveness of Mme.
Chambannes, M. Raindal's white hair and the black robe of the abbé
impressed the curious with their cumulative effect. In front of the
bootmaker's shop, urchins surrounded the carriage. Neighboring
shopkeepers came out on their steps and passed jocular comments. This
affair and the popular emotion it caused were summed up in a short
anonymous paragraph in the _Petit Impartial de Seine-et-Oise_. Although
names were not given no one could mistake the meaning of the allusions,
from the heading, _Suzanne_, to the bitterness of the writer towards
"certain ecclesiastics, friends of the orphans" who were paying for the
abbé Touronde's holidays.
As a result of this unlucky experience Mme. Chambannes henceforth
avoided the towns.
These drives, moreover, were less of a pleasure than a mere pastime
between the hours when she read Gerald's letters--when any came--and
those when she wrote to him.
Every day, after lunch, she shut herself up, to write him long pages,
cleverly composed so as to stimulate his inert tenderness and his
somnolent jealousy. In the meantime, M. Raindal, who had gone up,
seemingly to work, enjoyed a nap on the floor above or imitated his
hostess by writing a few words to his family. It would have made a
piquant comparison to put their two letters side by side. Zozé purposely
blackened her own character, multiplied the questionable details, the
recital of episodes where her coquetry won her admiration, the masculine
homage, the fervent glances of M. Raindal, of the abbé, of a passer-by,
of all the men. The master, on the contrary, exhausted all examples in
order to whitewash her of everything suspicious, to establish her
child-like candor, her virtue and undoubted purity.
They did not meet again until nearly four o'clock. Then, according to
the temperature, they remained in the garden or made visits in the
neighborhood, either to the abbé Touronde, whose little orphans M.
Raindal inspected twice, the Herschsteins, or the Silberschmidts.
Never did the time lag for the master, unless it were when Zozé left him
alone with her Aunt Panhias, having herself to call somewhere in the
village, give orders, or change her dress. His only compensation was
that he could talk about his little pupil. He confided to Mme. Panhias
his own observations concerning the changing moods of Zozé. Some
mornings she seemed a prey to utter weariness, without any notable event
justifying these fits of sadness. To what could he attribute them? Mme.
Panhias, who had secretly noted the coincidence of such crises with the
non-arrival of letters bearing the Deauville post-mark, replied
evasively:
"It is her _natourre_ to be like this! How can it be helped?"
"It may be so!" M. Raindal approved. "Quite so!... A dreamy nature!... A
nature essentially melancholy!"
And he promised himself to neglect nothing that could bring distraction
to his little pupil.
He even consented to play tennis with her, one afternoon, for fear of
disappointing her. Zozé was on one side, M. Raindal and Aunt Panhias
together on the other. Rather because he was all out of breath than for
fear of compromising his own dignity, the master gave it up after a few
minutes. His success in that game had been mediocre. Moved by a feeling
of self-denial, Zozé did not repeat the attempt.
She also meant to show solicitude. She was sorry for poor M. Raindal's
family worries, of which he had given her a few significant
illustrations. Whenever the master opened a letter from Langrune in
front of her, she never failed to inquire whether his ladies showed less
malice.
"Phew!... Icy.... Always ice-like!... Inquiries as to my health....
News of their own.... Compliments for you.... Kisses.... Hardly ten
lines.... Read for yourself!"
She scanned the page, remembering Gerald's letters--notes whose laconism
hardly exceeded that of the master's relatives.
"Yes, dear master!" she sighed.... "As you say, humanity is very
stupid!"
On such days, out of pity for his sorrows which were so similar to her
own, she was less rigorous towards the furtive kisses with which M.
Raindal sought out her hands, gloved or bare, on every possible
occasion. She racked her brains to order delicate dishes which she knew
would please him. Then, the dinner ended, if he did not fall asleep, she
read to him in the drawing-room--a newspaper or a volume of history. She
read timidly, doing her best, with incorrect intonations, little girl's
errors which almost melted the master's heart. Or else--height of
delights--she accepted his arm for a walk in the garden, along the lawn,
in front of the terrace. When the sky was cloudy, M. Raindal, under the
veil of obscurity, daringly kissed the young woman's hand. Once he
almost risked a nearer kiss, on her neck, taking advantage of the
half-décolleté evening dress which Mme. Chambannes wore. But, on the
verge of executing the movement, he was seized with such a fear that he
stopped dead on the spot.
"Are you ill, dear master?" Zozé asked.
"No!" he replied, starting again. "I was listening to the wind in the
branches!"
When he reached his room after these nocturnal frolics, he had
difficulty in going to sleep. Reflections bubbled in him in foaming
cascades. He counted up the number of kisses Mme. Chambannes had
tolerated since the morning: one in the Verneuil wood, another in the
park before lunch, another in the afternoon, in Zozé's own room, where
he had gone on the pretext of asking for a book, a fifth and even a
sixth one in the evening, below the terrace.... He modestly admitted to
himself that these were childish calculations and not devoid of vanity!
But what weight have metaphysical considerations against the
overwhelming reality of our joys? The latter know no other limit than
the variations of our feelings. If they reach exaltation, we should not
dismiss their enthusiasm with contempt; if they fall or diminish, what
philosophy can lift them up again? Thus M. Raindal meditated, with a
growing scorn for speculative pleasures.
He often reached a state of extreme frankness, in the course of those
solemn examinations, when his naked soul spoke to his mind, as a wife to
her husband. It was quite true! M. Raindal did not attempt to deny it;
he was slightly in love with his pretty little pupil. At her approach,
he felt himself blush; he felt those emotions and internal flutterings
which, according to general opinion, are signs of infatuation. To be
sure, it was a harmless love, a flame that could not scorch, the last
radiation of his heart! What danger did he run in rejoicing at those
crepuscular lights which life, in a last act of kindness, sometimes
kindles again on the road that leads to the grave? What wrong did he do
when he drew from those illicit kisses a sensation of renewed youth, a
continuous denial given to the fatal decline of his years?
These grave thoughts saddened him. He deplored being so old; he
regretted that he had not known his dear friend Mme. Chambannes sooner.
Again, not to mention the forthcoming departure which would separate him
from the young woman, how many hours near her had Fate in store for
him?... Under a rush of bitterness, he would sit down to write to
Thérèse, to attempt a new project. August was drawing to an end. M.
Raindal, from words Mme. Chambannes let fall, was inclined to conclude
that a prolongation of his visit would please his hostess. In the course
of many chats, she had seemed to indicate that the arrival of the two
ladies in September would not be unwelcome to her. What did these latter
say to that? Would they join the master, instead of returning to Paris,
during those "days of intense heat" which threatened to persist? M.
Raindal did not intend to force their hands. Nevertheless, he was of the
opinion that their ill-humor had lasted too long, and it did not seem
right that they should a second time refuse such cordial advances.
He went to bed revived by the hope one acquires through the mere
voicing of one's desires. And, the next day, when he saw Zozé again, all
smiling and fresh in a light morning gown, like a nymph of dawn, the
last vapors of his melancholy fled away.
"Where are you going, dear master?" she cried merrily from her window.
He looked up and made friendly signals to her with his hand.
"I am going to the stables to take some sugar to Notpou.... After that I
shall go to the post-office to mail a letter to my family!"
"Hurry up, dear master! I shall be ready in half an hour."
He looked back, five steps away, placing his hands above his eyes. She
was still smiling, leaning on the balcony. The wide sleeves of her gown
had slipped apart and showed the white flesh of her arm, folded on the
balustrade.
"If only those women agree to come!" thought M. Raindal, as he walked
towards the stables.
One morning, as he returned from mailing the fourth letter to them in
one week--three having been left unanswered--he caught up with the
village postman on whose route the château was.
"A letter for you, monsieur!" the man said as he saluted.
The master slowed down. It was a letter from Langrune. The Raindal
ladies admitted that he was right in his remarks concerning the heat.
Consequently, they would delay their departure and not return to Paris
until about September 15th. Of Les Frettes, of Mme. Chambannes, not a
word was said.
"Fools!" the master murmured with disappointment.
But his satisfaction was stronger. After all, this gave him the desired
postponement, the right to remain at Les Frettes. Who knew but that the
two women, had they been coming, would have made him uncomfortable with
their humiliating surveillance! As to their coldness, their hidden
enmity, he would see them on his return, and subdue them, cost what it
might!
He walked so fast that he met the postman coming out of the door of the
château.
In the middle of the terrace, the stone balustrade of which ran all
round the house, Zozé sat dreaming in a wicker armchair. In front of her
some opened letters lay on a little table beside the tea tray.
"Anything new, dear master?" she asked. "The postman told me he had
given you a letter.... Was it from your family?"
M. Raindal stammered confused explanations.
"Well, then, when will you be leaving?" asked Zozé calmly.
He looked at her with a somewhat disappointed expression.
"Eh! I am not going, _mon amie_.... Since you are willing, I shall be
happy to stay."
He glanced to the left, then to the right, and seized Zozé's hand,
bending over her.
"I, too, have some great news now!" the young woman declared,
suppressing a gesture of enervation while M. Raindal completed a heavy
kiss. "First of all, I have a telegram from George. He is coming back on
September 1st, Monday ... in three days!"
"Ah!" M. Raindal said carelessly. "Good! How is he!"
"Very well! You may read his telegram.... And then...."
"And then?" the master repeated, oppressed with anxiety.
"Then? Well, I have received a letter from the Messrs. de Meuze who
inform me that they are coming to spend a week at Les Frettes."
M. Raindal's lips twisted. He attempted an emphatic objection:
"But you assured me...."
"Yes, that they would open the shooting season.... They are going to do
that, in the Poitou, where it doesn't open until the 12th."
"That is different!" murmured the master in a tone of defeat. "When do
they arrive?"
"Monday, also!"
The master drew in his breath and asked, in a firmer voice:
"The same day as your husband?"
"Yes!" Zozé replied, watching him from the corner of one eye. "That is
to say, George will arrive at nine. Uncle Panhias will meet him at the
Gare du Nord, and he cannot be here before eleven. The Messrs. de Meuze
arrive in the afternoon.... After all, George will be here a few hours
later!"
"That's right; a few hours later!" M. Raindal repeated, at all hazard.
He laid a hand upon his forehead, complaining of a sudden headache. The
sun, no doubt ... or his haste in returning.
"With your permission, I shall not go out this morning!" he said. "I
prefer to rest."
Smiling, Mme. Chambannes watched him depart. Then a sudden sulkiness
brought down the corners of her lips. After all, there was nothing for
her to laugh at. Everything was taking an ugly turn. The master had
taken seriously her banal words of courtesy to him and the regrets
which, in a moment of anger, she had formulated concerning Gerald. Old
Raindal was going to "stick to" Les Frettes for another fortnight!
Thereupon, George was coming back from Bosnia! The marquis and his son
arriving at the same time--as agreed. She had no hope that Raldo would
agree to hurry their arrival! Barely one evening to see each other
again, find each other again! And this, besides, would have to be before
old Raindal, who was already sulky and would keep his eye on them! What
ill-luck, what complications and difficulties!
During the three days that followed, Mme. Chambannes apologized for
being in a sad mood. She did not feel very well and her nerves ached.
M. Raindal affected to be sorry and full of goodwill. He, at most,
risked a kiss or two, to keep himself in countenance. But he was not
feeling very gay himself. Courteously, Uncle Panhias accused him of that
fact. The master feigned surprise. No, really, he had no reason
whatsoever for being sad; and to prove his care-free state, he chuckled,
beating his chest:
"Ha ha! I not gay! Ha ha! Why should I not feel gay? Ha!"
Gerald's image passed, more clearly, before his mind; the master's
little laugh stopped dead, as if broken in two by a sudden shock.