“It is one!” remarked Cyprien.
“Yes, yes, all are naturalized French citizens,” Schleifmann continued, “with the exception of Burzig whom I was forgetting.... It is not his fault, however.... He owes that to his father.... They have the mania for change in that family. The grandfather was born in Mayence and became an American. Good! The father came to Paris and turned into a Frenchman.... Pouf! It was not enough!... He made an Englishman of his son to save him from military service.... I tell you, these damned Burzigs are never satisfied!”
He laughed, a sneer on his lips.
“If the Jews of France had red blood in their veins, I can assure you that they would have thrown out all these tourists! You, the true Frenchmen, should have made life so unbearable, so hard for them that....”
“What about yourself, Schleifmann?” Raindal asked. “Are you not going to be naturalized also?”
The Galician gave a melancholy smile.
“I, my good friend?... At my age!... What is the use? Fate made me a man without a country and a man without a country I must remain.... I am plain M. Schleifmann, a citizen of humanity, as someone said....”
“That is all very well!” Cyprien objected. “But what would happen to you if war broke out?”
“War!” Schleifmann murmured dreamily.... “First of all, shall I see it?... Then I am very old, my dear Raindal; I would make a poor kind of a soldier.... I am sorry.... However much I do detest war and the imbecile reasons for which nations massacre each other, I would have liked nevertheless to serve France, the least stupid of all nations, after all, and the most generous I have ever known....”
“Phew! You could make yourself useful in other ways,” M. Raindal said.
“True!...” Schleifmann said in a low voice, asif he were addressing his own soul. “In 1871, the Commune came!”
But Cyprien missed the tragic retort. He was already lost in joyful thoughts of the morrow. He imagined with glee how stupefied his brother would be when he heard: “Well! How is old Herschstein! And that charming Mme. Pums?... and the honorable M. Burzig!...” He laughed so loudly that he apologized to Schleifmann.
“Forgive me, I was thinking of something so funny.... Ha, ha! It is wonderful!”
He felt moved to show his gratitude:
“Here, Schleifmann, you will not refuse a glass of kirchenwasser?... Garçon, kirchenwasser and two glasses, two big ones, customers’ glasses, you know!...”
The waiter returned with a bottle protected by a cover of twisted straw. Cyprien poured two big drinks and lifted his glass to touch that of his friend.
“To humanity, Schleifmann!” he said courteously.
“To France!” the Galician replied, and they toasted.
At the same time, the Raindal family were making their entry into the salon of Mme. Chambannes.
Zozé stepped out rapidly to meet them. She wore a loose dress of pink silk with subdued flowered-work. It gave her the silhouette of a Spanish princess. Chambannes followed her; he was perhaps smiling under the mystery of his huge blonde mustache. Then began the series of introductions.
Ladies first: little Mme. Pums, in a tight-fitting black robe with gold spangles, which made her plump face appear even fresher, whiter by contrast and gave added zest to her red hair; Mme. de Marquesse, a tall blonde with a horsy jaw, whose mauve crêpe dress showed, revealed about the hips, the massive bones of a Republic or a Liberty; Mme. Silberschmidt, a thin dark woman with the face of a sick hen; Mme. Herschstein, more angular and haughty in her white satin corsage than a lady of ancient lineage. Then came the men, one by one, as they happened. They bowed low; all gave deferential yet curious looks; all shook hands eagerly and yet with shyness; they spoke in respectful but unfinished sentences, as one does in the presence of a foreign potentate with whose etiquette and language one is not very well acquainted.
Pums, the dean of the naturalized ones, was introduced last. Small, neat, yellow-faced, dressed with sober correctness—what struck one most in his physiognomy was not his Viennese stockbroker type, nor his thick black mustache, nor the gray about his temples; it was the projection of his two big light chocolate eyes, so keen in seeing things, so ingenuous and so languorous that, but for a flicker of sly archness at the bottom of them, one might have thought them the eyes of a good little boy surprised at seeing so many people. He spoke a decent French, with not more than the suspicion of a Teutonic accent: a French that was, like himself, naturalized.He was the only one who succeeded in reaching the end of his compliment.
M. Raindal had no time to thank him; they were passing into the dining-room.
Mme. Chambannes sat between the master and the Marquis de Meuze. Her husband faced her, with Mme. Raindal to his right and Mme. de Marquesse on the left. The neighbors of Thérèse were Gerald and Mazuccio; the latter a sort of brown faun, who droned his with the fury of a Venetian mosquito. The rest of the company sat round the table, at seats marked by cards bearing their names. The soup was served in attentive silence.
They were obviously waiting for the master to say something important and unusual; the ladies were especially anxious to hear M. Raindal whom they imagined, after hisLife of Cleopatra, to be a famous raconteur who would surely deliver some “stiff ones” during the dinner.
They were soon undeceived. He was really not very amusing, this M. Raindal, nor very original, with his fat, flabby neck, his hands that hung loose, his manners of an ill at ease ex-prefect—and his almost inaudible voice. Moreover, they were not missing much. Details on the climate of Egypt, the means of transportation, the favorable time of the year for traveling in that region—I ask you, would Baedeker or the Joanne guide give one as much?
Soon, M. Raindal had but two left to listen to him,the Marquis and Mme. Chambannes who was never tired of asking questions.
To tell the truth, he did not feel in the mood. It was not that he felt intimidated by Mme. Chambannes’ fervent glances, or the caressing roll of herr’s which made her voice softly imperious. On the contrary, he was grateful to her for not wearing a lower dress; he found her most graceful in that corsage which barely showed a modest opening and exposed a small square of skin with her fine neck free from jewelry. The surrounding sumptuousness embarrassed him much more than the tender glances of the young woman. He had written a whole chapter on the Pomp of Cleopatra; he had not winced at the gems, the gold, the incense and all the sumptuousness of the Inimitable Life; but he now remained as one dazed before the reality of a magnificence that was much inferior to it. The profusion of flowers running in garlands all over the table, the light shining in the cut glass, the dainty silver, the shining elegance of the guests were to him as so many sharp points of brilliancy that caught his eye and his thoughts. He was, moreover, further distracted by a noise that resembled the purring of an engine, theschh, theharrh, thehorrhand thepffwhich were now fusing from the group of the Silberschmidts, the Herschsteins and the Pums, who were massed on one side of the table.
They had evidently made themselves at home; their tongues wagged, they used their native language, which sounded like a gargle. The French language?Why, that was a dialect for official use, good enough when one had to be polite, for social life.... But why should they place such a check upon themselves when they talked business, when it came to serious or intimate matters? How could they do it, anyhow? Was not this native language of theirs which sprang to their lips with a naïve instinctive vigor stronger than anything else, stronger than any decree or any oath of allegiance? You should have seen the jeering wink that accompanied Pums’ inquiries concerning thekrankheit(illness) of the Sultan and the no less knowing look in the eyes of Herschstein when he replied. That indisposition of the Sultan had proved devilishly successful; it was Herschstei idea, had been sent from Paris to Vienna, re-telegraphed from Vienna to Paris, and had upset the Bourse throughout the afternoon. Turkish stocks had tumbled down, 3 francs, 6 francs, 10 francs at a time and the panic had spread to the French rent! Result: about 100,000 francs for each of the active members of the black band and a paltry 25,000 for Pums, who was only an ally, a sort of honorary accomplice. However, he was not dissatisfied with his share and even wished to pay back Herschstein who explained to him the new plans of the Bank of Galicia concerning certain gold mines. That scheme consisted in forming a syndicate which would be named an Investigating Society and would glean from the market the least suspicious mining bonds. Moreover, it was an easy operation; they had first only to depreciate these values by meansof alarming news and then send them soaring up to the highest point by means of optimistic news. The art of the market at its infancy! The infallible process. Young Burzig who, being a British subject, had been ceaselessly flirting in English with pretty Mme. Pums, brusquely returned to the German of his family in order to take part in the discussion and the projects of the group. They were discussing with de Marquesse what bonds they could choose, what mines would be drained in the course of the operation. English or Dutch names, more blazing than tiaras, were quoted: the Pink Star of South Africa, the Transvaal Sun, the Source of the Carbuncles....
Suddenly there were signs of restlessness in the one little green eye of the Marquis de Meuze. It rolled, turned and trembled in its orbit like a fishing cork. He tried hard to take in what was being said. What! There was no mistake about it this time! They were talking about gold mines at the end of the table. Quite so.... Gold mines!Nom n bon homme! Nom n chien!How could he listen to these gentlemen without being discourteous to the other one, that M. Raindal with his damned stories about mummies and Mariette Bey?... The marquis tried vainly to follow both conversations and his face became purple in the attempt. He could only hear a few words of the one that was carried on further from him:fontein...rand...chartered...Cecil Rhodes...de Beers...claim... and their technical syllables further pricked his curiosity.Well, it was no small matter to him! 120,000 francs engaged on the mining market. “120,000” the marquis repeated to himself; did it not give him a right to a certain amount of anxiety? And it seemed that it was in answer to him that he heard the voice of Pums in a half silence.
“Ya! Gewiss.... Ich glaube das die Red-Diamond....”
The Red-Diamond—Fontein!...Why, that was the favorite mine of the marquis, his most beloved stock, “his little Red Diamond,” as he called it victoriously! This time M. de Meuze could no longer contain himself. Brutally he turned right about and addressed the financiers:
“Excuse me, M. Pums, you have just mentioned theRed Diamond, I believe? Would it be indiscreet to ask what you were saying about it?”
“Not at all, marquis,” Pums replied, for he always felt honored when M. de Meuze consulted him.
And out of regard for the aged nobleman, the sizing up of the different mining stocks was carried on in French.
However, M. Raindal had not noticed this desertion. It was some time already since he had been speaking for Zoz benefit alone; he felt that a gradual mist of sympathy isolated them together from the rest of the party. He thought to himself, charmed and perhaps also emboldened by the mixture of wines he had been drinking:
“I was right.... One of Cleopatr followers!... A little Greek girl.... A true little Greek!”
Then he went on:
“One day the fellahs refused to carry our luggage on board; Mariette Bey rushed upon them, revolver in hand....”
Zozé exclaimed, amazed by his tales. She was not lacking in good will or respect for philosophical maxims; she only relaxed her zeal when she could not understand. At such time her eyes wandered, innocently settling in turn upon each of the guests, in an impersonal and almost mechanical need for tenderness which she still preserved from her past quests.
The little Pums rushed forward; his eyelids quivered; he was like a gymnast anxious to catch his trapeze. Poor fellow, he was so much in love! Geral reply was a cordial grimace, made with his nose or his mouth or his cheeks, and Zozé understood him: “Yes, of course, it is quite understood, we two are lovers!” But Mlle. Raindal, alas, seemed less satisfied. Poor girl! Gerald and Mazuccio—they were leaving her shamelessly alone. One inclined his face towards the flat chest of Germaine de Marquesse and almost touched her; the othe face was aflame; he had turned entirely to one side, close to that lascivious hen, Mme. Silberschmidt! What a gap there was on each side of the poor girl! No, it was really not nice for them to treat her in this fashion as if she were a governess.
Thereupon Mme. Chambannes would look again into M. Rainda eyes. That had the same effect upon him as if someone had poured something hot inside him, and he became quite red. His eyes blinked with pleasure. He coughed to gather himself together again and lifted his head, unconsciously awaiting the next soulful look, or else he admired Zoz profile; it was so neat, so delicate under her gathered hair which was caught behind by a tiny bow of pearls. And as he went on with his anecdotes, he repeated to himself:
“A true little Greek!... A little Greek girl from the Islands.”
Suddenly the true little Greek became restless on her chair; her face showed suspicion; she looked hard towards Mlle. Raindal who was half-hidden from her behind a bunch of mauve orchids set up in the middle of the table.
Well! What was amusing the girl so? What was it that brought to the corners of her mouth this set, oldish smile like a wrinkle? What was the meaning of the contemptuous glances and the commiserating attitude with which she scrutinized all the guests one after the other!
“Upon my word,” Mme. Chambannes thought, “one might think she was looking at savages or niggers!”
But a new thought came to her.
“Oh, well! The poor girl is annoyed!... I can well understand it!...”
Mme. Chambannes called Gerald in friendly words,to bring him back to his duties. They were serving the finger bowls. It was too late, after all! She would see to it next time! She pressed her nails into the translucent slice of lemon which floated on the surface of the water. She pushed back her chair with slow discretion and everybody rose.
“Mademoiselle!” Gerald said, offering his arm to Thérèse.
The young girl laid her hand on it but avoided his eyes, disdainfully turning her head away. They walked to the drawing-room without a word. Gerald multiplied his courteous, deferential attitudes; he drew in his chest and gave all the signs of a well-bred man of the world who knew that he was at fault and exonerated himself silently. He escorted her to Mme. Raindal and softly withdrew his arm.
“Mademoiselle!”
He bowed with much ceremony and directed his steps towards the smoking-room. Thérèse could not prevent herself from watching him.
The balancing of his tall frame on his bent legs gave him the relieved, weary gait of a man who has just come down from his horse, or of one who has accomplished an imposed task. Outside the smoking-room he took Mazuccio familiarly by the shoulders to make him pass in front; she heard them still laughing behind the old tapestry portière—a mysterious throaty laugh which even at a distance had an obscene sound.
“Well, dear?” M. Raindal murmured, as he approachedin short and somewhat heavy steps. “How was the dinner?”
“Excellent,” Thérèse replied coldly, and sat down to the right of her mother. “I am delighted that we came....”
“That is what I thought,” M. Raindal continued softly, mistaking his daughte tone. “This Mme. Chambannes entertains people in the most perfect fashion.... Now ... you agree that I was right not to let myself be stopped by certain prejudices, certain preconceived ideas!...”
This allusion caused Mme. Raindal to blush suddenly, but Thérèse, a sneer on her lips, whispered:
“Why, surely, father, I told you.... These people improve very much on closer acquaintance....”
M. Raindal turned round. Mme. Chambannes was calling him away to offer him some coffee.
At the other end of the drawing-room little Mme. Pums and tall Mme. de Marquesse were holding each other by the waist and exchanged joyful secrets concerning the use they had made of their afternoon. Their outward contrast brought out all the more the best points of each. One guessed that they shared the same tastes and the same aptitudes, everything they needed to take part in full agreement in some party of four, especially with two pleasant men of corresponding height.
Still linked together they marched through the room. Mme. de Marquesse pulled aside the curtain of the smoking-room; joyful exclamations greeted thegraceful pair. They went in altogether and the shouts increased. These gentlemen were not ungrateful.
The conversation dragged until their return. Mme. Chambannes tried to make small talk with Thérèse and Mme. Raindal, while Mme. Herschstein paid compliments to the master. But the subjects of conversation were getting scarce. She remarked on the late hours of modern dinners and gave out some prognostications concerning the forthcoming winter; and then Zozé began to feel ill at ease. Great Heavens! What could she talk about? Dresses! She must not think of it! Poor women, they were rather “trussed up!” Theaters? They had admitted that they had not been to one for two years. Zozé tried; she groped for ideas; the gray eyes of Thérèse looked sternly into hers and put her further out of countenance. She was very intelligent perhaps, this Mlle. Raindal, but she was not easy to get on with.... “No go in her,” as Gerald would declare. Zozé was on the verge of forgiving him his brutal silence during the dinner.
At last the men returned, with the exception of the marquis, whose apologies George Chambannes offered to M. Raindal. As a rule, that was the hour for smutty stories. They would go by twos to whisper in the dark corners; the old people usually remained in sight in the center of the room, peacefully discussing aloud their money matters or their infirmities.
The presence of the Raindal family probably made the guests feel ill at ease, for they did not attempt their usual customary maneuver. Two of them only,Givonne the painter of tambourines, and little Mme. Pums, who had been last in leaving the smoking-room, dared to maintain the tradition. They settled down in a window corner. With the exact expression of an English commercial traveler it seemed, at a distance, as if Givonne was praising to Mme. Pums some article which, he promised, would give her complete satisfaction.
M. Raindal examined them for a moment with a mechanical benevolence. But he felt his eyelids becoming heavy. The abundant meal or the efforts to recall his memories which he had made during the dinner made him feel very tired. To avoid speaking he made free use of affable smiles.
The entrance of Jean Bunel, whom Mme. Chambannes brought towards him, gave him a pretext to rise.
“M. Jean Bunel, whose beautiful novels sure you have read,” Zozé said in presenting him.
“To be sure.... Delighted, my dear confrère!” said M. Raindal warmly, as he pressed the hand of Bunel, whose name he was nevertheless hearing for the first time.
He was a young man with a fine brown beard; rapidly he turned out an admiring sentence, as pointed and pretty as a candy cone.
M. Raindal thanked him with a bow, and made a sign to Mme. Raindal and Thérèse, who rose at the same time.
“You are not going already?” Mme. Chambannes asked, exaggerating her regret.
M. Raindal mumbled some excuse and they all walked together towards the hall.
A wave of relief passed over the guests. It was not one old maid but three who were disappearing through that door! A feeling of frolic was in the air; they all felt a need to let out foolish remarks and to fall back into their habits. Yet they still held themselves in hand, out of the respect which notoriety inspires in the minds of uncultured people.
When Mme. Chambannes returned, she found them all silent.
“Well, you are not very gay here,” she exclaimed, and added after a pause:
“What do you think of him?”
“Oh, your little friend is charming!” said Gerald, in the midst of an explosion of laughter.
Pums encouraged by this success tried also to say something very funny, but Jean Bunel declared in commanding tones:
“His is nothing less than one of the most remarkable minds of the day!”
“st-ce pas?” Zozé murmured.
“Yes,” Bunel went on, moved as much by a generous impulse of solidarity as by a malicious delight in contradicting a clubman.... “Yes, without comparing him to Taine or Renan, I think that within the last few years the science of history has produced no more vigorous brain nor a purer stylist....”
“Really?” Pums exclaimed, suddenly brought round to another view.
As a matter of fact, the only reproach which he had for M. Raindal was that he spoke too low. Silberschmidt agreed with him. Mme. Herschstein, to whom the master had listened, affirmed that M. Raindal was one of the most interesting of men. Mme. Pums thought he had a very expressive face. Givonne was called down for voicing a criticism of Mme. Rainda dress. Did such things count?
The change was so decisive and so general that Zozé felt much pity for her little Raldo. Poor darling! What a snubbing!
She walked to the fireplace where he stood, his elbows resting on the marble of the mantelpiece. When she came quite close to him she murmured in a passionate whisper the query which had kept her throat dry for the last three hours:
“Do you love me?”
Free from spite, the count instantly affirmed that he did.
THEclock of the Collège de France sharply struck three. A little door hidden in the gray wall was opened and M. Raindal entered.
He sat behind his large white table, facing his usual audience of eight who waited, pen in hands, ready to take notes.
He took a few manuscript sheets from his portfolio and began simply:
“We concluded, in our last lesson before the new year, the study of the oblatory paintings which have been found in the mastabas of Abu-Roash. From the same point of view we shall begin to-day the study of the mastabas of Dahshour. The paintings contained in this necropolis afford to the historian perhaps more interesting insights than those of Abu-Roash. We find there particulars concerning the private and industrial life of the Egyptians, which may well be considered unique. I, therefore, call your particular attention to this lecture and those that will follow....”
M. Raindal paused and consulted his notes:
“The chief painting in the mastabas of Dahshour is that which was preserved in the tomb of a rich trader of that period, one of those important merchantswhose caravans carried on the traffic with Lybia and the Syrian coast. It was first brought to public notice by Brugsch; then it formed the subject of two detailed communications from my young and eminent confrère, M. Maspero; these appeared in theAnnales du Musée de Boulack; and theRevue gyptologie. The name of this trader was Rhanofirnotpou....”
M. Raindal rose from his seat and quickly rubbed the blackboard behind him. A little cloud of white chalk, light as smoke, floated about his sleeve.
“Rha-no-fir-not-pou!...” he spelled out, as he wrote the hieroglyphics of the word upon the board.
He had scarcely finished when the padded door was pushed forward and fell back again noisily. Insidious emanations of iris perfume sharply passed through the room. A lady entered, and with a rustle of silk, sat down behind the students. In spite of himself, and as if compelled by the odor, M. Raindal turned round anxiously. Yes, it was she, it was the pretty little Mme. Chambannes!
He was so upset that on coming back to his place he could do nothing but repeat his first sentence concerning the defunct Rhanofirnotpou.
“ ...One of those important merchants, as I said, one of those rich traders whose caravans....”
Mme. Chambannes! Mme. Chambannes at his lecture, in a blue skirt, a white veil and her otter fur coat! Who could have expected such foolishness, such a childish caprice? And now she was makinglittle signs at him as one does to friends in a theater from box to box: “How do you do, M. Raindal. How do you do, how do you do,” the head of Mme. Chambannes kept on saying.
She desisted, at last, when she noticed that the maste face remained impassive despite her politeness.
Moreover, the coldness of M. Raindal was not her only cause for disappointment. To begin with, she did not understand anything of this story about the paintings of the late Rhanofirnotpou. What! Paintings in a tomb! The great trader must have been an original character! And then she was astonished by the setting.
She had thought that she would enter a grandiose amphitheater, with the audience crowding on the tiers built of oak and varnished by age. Below she had imagined a huge chair as high as that of a judge, and flanked by two ushers with silver chains. In the chair, M. Raindal in a crimson red velvet robe bordered with ermine.... M. Raindal discoursing, playing with his braided bonnet, drinking sugar and water and interrupted at every word by his enthusiastic audience....
What a disillusion! What a contrast to the realities! Who could have imagined this narrow hall with dirty gray walls, those two imitation bronze busts—Plato and Epictetus—perching like Chinese pottery upon two pedestals of imitation stone, this coarse white wood bench that resembled a kitchen table, andrush-bottom chairs piled up on one side near the washed-out Plato as in an old furniture storeroom.
Zozé felt almost the same imperceptible melancholy which the spectacle of misery inspires in worthy people. She sought distraction in a successive inspection of the backs and of the necks of the eight students. Two were already bald. Three showed between the shoulders the shining line which the hard back of the omnibus pressed into the cloth. The coat of another was faded. Towards the end of the table, to the left was one with a brown mane—oh, what a wol head!—he surely did not squander his money at the hairdresse!...
She was full of pity for these brave young men. She wished she could give them advice about their clothes, and if necessary help them with her purse.
A scraping of chairs brought her back from her charitable dreams. The lecture was finished. M. Raindal had disappeared. But where? Through the wall, no doubt. And not even a sign of applause! Zozé was dumfounded.
She stood up, cramped from having sat so long, and followed the students who were passing out. Some made way for her. None of them stared at her. And those who walked ahead did not turn round to look. She found them discreet and well-bred but somewhat shy.
She paced the huge vestibule, sounding her heels on the tiles for the sake of hearing the echo. Ten minutes passed; she was freezing with cold. She wasgoing to ask Pageot when M. Raindal came forth from the shadows, his portfolio under his arm.
He repressed an angry gesture and assumed a smile as he advanced towards her.
“What! you here, dear madame!” he exclaimed hypocritically.
“Did you not recognize me? I heard your lecture.... I did not understand everything, but it was very interesting!”
M. Raindal sought an excuse in his poor eyesight and asked more anxiously:
“Well, my dear lady, what can I do for you? What is it you wish? To what fortunate hazard do I owe your presence here?”
Fortunate hazard! No, not at all fortunate. Yet, she could not reply: “Gerald has once more played me one of his tricks and put me and my caresses off for two hours.... That is why, having nothing to do, and out of sheer boredom, I came here to see what one of your lectures was like, and perhaps, also, to arrange a little dinner party!” What she said was this, accompanied by a child-like smile:
“No hazard at all, dear master!... I wanted to hear you, that is all.... When it was over, I waited for you, so as to shake your hand....”
“You are too kind, a thousand times ... really!...” M. Raindal murmured distractedly.
He darted frightened glances to right and left as they walked out. When they reached the street, and he saw Mme. Chambannes’ own carriage waiting, hewas unable to dominate a desire to run away. He took off his hat.
“Good-by, dear madame.... I hope soon to meet you again.... Please give my compliments to M. Chambannes.”
Zozé protested.
“What, master! Do you want me to drive you home?... In such weather!”
With a quizzical frown she showed him the sidewalk which the thawing temperature had apparently coated with syrupy iced coffee. The master declined. From outside her coupé, Zozé insisted, beating the leather of the cushions as if she were calling a little dog. M. Raindal lost all his composure. If the students, or some of his colleagues were to see him in this ludicrous position! Fear carried the day. He sat beside Mme. Chambannes.
“Tha better. It would have been silly to refuse,” Zozé said, and she lowered the front window to give the address to her coachman.
When she closed it again, M. Raindal noticed with relief that all the panes were covered with steam. Protected from sight by the opaque glass, he began to feel more at ease. He smiled at Mme. Chambannes, who was smiling at him.
The carriage rolled rapidly over the carpet of yellow snow. A soft warmth came from the hot water can; the pleasant scent of morocco leather blended with that of violets. M. Raindal sighed with comfortand, waking up, said paternally, to try to blot out the rudeness of his attempted leave-taking:
“It appears then, dear madame, that the lecture did not bore you too much?”
“Quite the contrary! Moreover, I firmly hope that, next time....”
“What next time?”
“I mean the next lecture I attend,” Zozé corrected, “and those after....”
M. Raindal darkened.
“Are you thinking of coming again?”
“Perhaps!... Why not?... Are you angry?...”
“Not at all, dear madame, not at all!”
He could say no more. He was paralyzed with stupefaction. So! She wanted to come every Monday, to attend all his lectures, publicly to compromise him, turn him into a laughing-stock for the whole Collège, the scientific world and perhaps the whole press! He fancied that he heard the voice of Cyprien: “Ah ha!... it appears that Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan”—the younger Raindal never used any other name for Mme. Chambannes—“it appears that Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan takes to Egyptology.... Bravo! Charming! Delightful!” Then would follow the sly irony of his colleagues, the jealous jests, the allusions, the scandal! No, no! M. Raindal was not going to risk such a misadventure as had often wrecked the careers of many of his illustrious colleagues, because of the fancies of a lady who was, he did not deny it, graceful, attractive and sympathetic, but neverthelessfrivolous and devoid of reflective power. He declared firmly:
“Listen, my dear lady.... I have enough esteem for you to tell you the truth.... Well, it seems to me that you are not in a position to derive any benefit from my teaching.... The Collège de France is a sort of seminary ... a seed-plot as it were, destined to form young savants ... you understand? The essential aim of the Collège de France is to....”
“Yes, yes!” Zozé interrupted sadly.... “Yes, my dear master, I can see that my presence is not welcome to you.... But how can I learn for my trip to Egypt, next winter?... What can I do?... What can I do?”
She hung on to her old project of “preparing for her trip”; she clung to it with an alluring obstinacy which was gradually getting on M. Rainda nerves. Phew! Let her “prepare” as best she could! He moved away from her and, in his impatience, let fall his portfolio.
Mme. Chambannes caught it deftly: “Poor M. Raindal!” she said, giving him one of the sidelong looks that were her natural way of looking at people.... “I am boring you, am I not?”
He blushed for his brusqueness. “Not at all! I am trying to think of some way in which I can help you with your studies, with your preparatory reading....”
Zozé frowned with attention. Suddenly, a joyful flicker swiftly passed over her caressing eyes.
“I ... I have an idea,” she insinuated; “an idea which has just occurred to me.”
“What is it?”
“But it is so indiscreet!”
“Never mind!... Tell me!” M. Raindal urged, feeling that his indulgence was once more wearing out.
“No, I shall never dare!”
She still hesitated, her eyes plunged into his. She decided to speak at last, when the carriage stopped at the door of his house.
There it was: she wished, if it were not too much trouble, that the master would agree to come to the rue de Prony, once a week, on Thursdays, or at least twice a month, not to give her lessons—no, Zozé would never bring herself to risk so impudent a request—but to talk to her, simply, as a friend, to guide her in her studies, to indicate to her what she should read....
“You understand.... I know that it is very indiscreet.... Yet, if you would ... it would make me so happy!... Wo you, dear master?”
Gently she laid her white-gloved hand on the maste knee, in a familiar gesture that had no touch of second-thought coquetry, as she had touched the knee of a kind grandfather—of her Uncle Panhias, for instance, when she was asking a favor. M. Raindal was intimidated and dared not move away. On seeing this slight, elegant creature bent before him in such an ingenuous and humbly craving attitude, hefelt pleasantly troubled and mistook that feeling for regret, for tenderness.
“Hm!... Madame!” he murmured, assuming again a pleasant voice.... “It would grieve me very much to displease you.... Nevertheless, you must realize that my obligations ... my work....”
“Oh! I know, I know!” Zozé said with feigned resignation.
Time passed. Raindal looked through the steam, at the soft silhouettes of the passers-by, unable to make up his mind to bid her good-night.
Suddenly he started, as if a shooting pain had passed through him.
“What is it, dear master?” Zozé asked in a solicitous tone.
“Nothing, nothing, my dear lady!” Oh! almost nothing—he had merely recognized at the end of the street certain swaggering shoulders, a certain martial gait, merely Uncle Cyprien who was walking straight to the carriage, flourishing his thick reddish cornel stick.
M. Raindal envied for a minute the distant shelter of the late Rhanofirnotpou. Why was he not in the deepest part of thehypogee, in the dark serdab, in the cement-sealed partition, instead of finding himself in a cage that seemed suddenly all windows, with a young and pretty woman who harassed him with her prayers!
“Do you really want to, dear master?... Nothinglike set dates.... I promise you.... You could fix the hours, the days....”
“I am trying to find, I am trying!” he replied mechanically, while attentively watching the rapid march of the enemy.
Uncle Cyprien was coming nearer; his features became more distinct; he reached the carriage. As he passed, he gave the turn-out a contemptuous and yet mistrustful glance and walked up the alley. Unconsciously M. Raindal heaved a sigh of relief. He put his hand out to Mme. Chambannes.
“Good-by, dear madame.... I shall think about it; l let you know.”
Zozé pouted with disappointment.
“And I was in hopes you would give me your answer now!”
M. Raindal passed a hand over his eyes, to sweep a painful vision away—that of his brother who might be coming down again, meeting him as he came out of the carriage and thereby acquiring a pretext for interminable sarcasm.... The savant murmured hurriedly:
“Very well then, madame, very well.... I shall come this week....”
“How kind of you.... How about Thursday? Next Thursday at 5....”
“Yes, Thursday at 5 lock.”
“You do know how sweet you are.” She grasped his hand and looked at him with an expression ofradiant gratefulness. But M. Rainda fingers were slipping out.
“Oh! excuse me!” she exclaimed.... “You are in a hurry.... Till Thursday, then, 5 lock!... I am counting on you, dear master....”
M. Raindal closed her door and saluted awkwardly. The carriage started. A “Good-night! Good-by!” caused him to turn round again. He saw Zoz little white glove making a parting friendly signal from the window of her coupé.
M. Raindal put off confiding the tale of this meeting to Thérèse from day to day, until Thursday arrived; it was as if he dreaded to bear her criticism. Phew! he knew well enough the objections she would make: his position among European savants, his academic standing, the ridiculous situation he risked finding himself in when engaged in so vague a task of popular instruction. He was even less anxious to hear the not unfair remarks of his daughter since the idea of going again to Mme. Chambannes was not repugnant to him, although he did not go so far as to admit it to himself. Once out of the hallowed atmosphere of the Collège, and saved from his brother Cyprien, he had begun to reproach himself for having so sharply rebuked his attractive admirer. Poor child! Should he not, on the contrary, find it touching, the case of this futile young person who was seized with a sudden passion for knowledge? Did it not afford him matter for observation, a subjectmost highly fascinating for a man of thought? Why, here was a chance for a thorough study of a personality! His mind recalled the picturesque attitude of her profile—a little suppliant—the tiny hand on his knee: “Do you want to come, dear-r master-r!” To be sure, he wanted to go! Certainly, he was going! If for no other reason, he would go for sheer selfishness, out of a savan curiosity. And Mlle. Thérèse—he thought, almost snappishly—well, it would be quite soon enough if he informed her after the lessons had begun!
Thus came the Thursday morning, and M. Raindal had not betrayed the mystery of his appointment.
He felt, therefore, somewhat ill at ease when Thérèse entered the study about 9. How unfortunate! Precisely at that hour he was busy packing books for Mme. Chambannes! However, he did not lose countenance, but exclaimed gaily:
“Hello! here you are, dear!”
She submitted to his kiss, then touched two of the large volumes he had piled up on the table.
“What is it, father?... Maspero.... Ebers!... Are you beginning to lend books?...”
“No!” M. Raindal declared, stiffening against his uneasiness. “These are books I am going to send to Mme. Chambannes.”
“To Mme. Chambannes!” Thérèse replied, dumfounded.
“Well, yes....”
He then related all the episodes of the previousMonday, with the exception, however, of the decisive appearance of Uncle Cyprien.
Thérèse listened quietly. When he had finished, she looked up. Her thin lips met in sarcastic contraction. Anger was gathering under her heavy frown. She asked him:
“Are you going?”
“Well, since I promised her!... I shall go two or three Thursdays.... The most elementary courtesy requires it.... Later, I shall see whether I should continue or not.”
“Very good, father!” she replied, disguising with difficulty the trembling she felt in her voice. “Just as you say.... You may be sure I would not presume to give you my advice....”
“But if I were to ask you for it?” M. Raindal said pluckily.
She burst out.
“If you were to ask me, I would tell you that this Mme. Chambannes is a little fool, that her set is extremely frivolous, that those you are taking up with will bring you nothing but unpleasantness and affronts.... I would tell you.... But, no, father, my respect commands me to be silent.”
The tips of her fingers rose and fell on her crossed arms, like two palpitating wings.
“Oh, ho! We are getting excited!” M. Raindal replied, as if he felt jocular. “Phew! If I remember rightly, little girl, you were not so severe on theevening of the ball.... Do you recollect, after dinner?...”
Thérèse could not repress a shrug.
“What, father! Did you understand that I meant it to be sarcastic, that those people were hateful to me, that they were revolting to me?... Have you sized them up yourself?... All that Uncle Cyprien tells us is mere childishness in presence of the truth.... Race, blood, nationality—there is much more than these! They are people of a species different from ours, do you hear me, father? All of them, Germans, Prussians, French, English, Italians or what not, they belong to one and the same band, to one tribe, and one that will never be ours.... To think that you, a man in your position.... because this little fool flattered you, coaxed you!”
These last words caused a sharp contraction of his mouth.
“Allow me,” he said. “No, no, you must allow me, child.... You are wandering.... You forget somewhat whom you are addressing.... And you must admit that I have the right, with my ripe experience, to tell you that I am perhaps quite as good a judge of people as you are.... You must admit also that, up to the present, I have led my life in a way that gives neither you nor me any cause for blushing. Am I not right?”
Instead of replying, Thérèse affected to glance through the pages of a book. He went on, more softly:
“Believe me, my dear!... You should leave these and other theories to your excellent Uncle Cyprien.... Tell me that you do not like Mme. Chambannes; that her company inspires you with repulsion and mistrust.... Have no fear! If your impressions are justified, I shall be the first to notice it and to regulate my attitude accordingly.... But give up at least this attempt to delude yourself or me; do not transform your personal animosities into social views.... This would be unworthy of you, of your culture, of your intellectual position.... And when all is said, you know it yourself!”
He smiled and gave her a look of appeal.
“Come, give me a kiss!”
The girl approached and offered her forehead. M. Raindal laid a long kiss upon it and pressed her firmly in his arms.
“Huh lah! le laugh!” the master exhorted her, for the face of Thérèse, although now calm, remained inert and dreamy.
Her lips parted in an oblique smile.
“Very good! Perfect!” M. Raindal said, exaggerating the satisfaction he derived from her incomplete grin.
Lunch was a silent affair. M. Raindal avoided his daughte eyes. He was secretly relieved when he heard that she was going to the Library after lunch. He did not ask what she was going for; he preferred her to be away when he left.
Towards 4 lock, he donned a smooth frock-coatand took up a pair of new gloves, whose gray skin stuck to his flesh. He hurried, for fear of missing the omnibus. But he noticed, on reaching the street, that the sidewalk was muddy. He called a cab.
MME.Chambanneswas waiting for him in the smoking-room, which had been arranged as a study.
In the center stood a large table, on a dark red carpet. There was an English crystal inkstand, bought for the occasion, Oriental cigarettes in a cup, a note-book bound in morocco and gold, and on each side of the table, an Empire armchair. To the Iris perfume emanating from Zozé was added an aroma of incense which pervaded the house, even to the hall.
Mme. Chambannes took M. Rainda hat and gloves, which he hesitated to deposit on the table.
They sat facing each other and the lesson began.
First of all, M. Raindal dictated a list of books which Zozé was to get.
Mme. Chambannes wrote rapidly, her lips moving a little. The pale rose of the electric lamp left the top of her hair in the shadow; but her clear-cut oval face remained in full light. Powder, spread with a light hand, covered her flesh so artfully that it seemed a natural velvet. Rays of light skimmed it without being reflected, and they touched likewise the soft, thin silk of her afternoon dress. The shades were pale, its pattern indistinct, being covered with a quantity of creamy lace. The white tone of it gaveto her face a revived brilliancy of early morning purity. She seemed hardly dressed at all under the ample folds of her robe and as fresh as if she had just emerged from her bath.
She looked up whenever M. Raindal paused. Her watching eyes spread an overflowing tenderness around the master. M. Raindal coughed to cover his discomfort; he brought his forearms and hanging hands closer to his frame and seemed anxious to withdraw further back.
When he had dictated his list, Zozé asked him:
“And now?”
“Now, well, you will have to work, dear lady, and to learn to work alone! In spite of my eagerness to help you, you must realize that there will be weeks when....”
Zozé interrupted him. “I know, my dear master, I know.... They will not be lessons; ... we shall have our little talks ... friendly advice, when you can, when you are free....”
M. Raindal nodded his approval and drew towards himself one of the large volumes of Eber work on Egypt. He turned the pages and pushed the volume towards Zozé whenever he found an illustration or when he had to give an explanation. She bent over the table. The soft curls of her hair sometimes lightly tickled the forehead of M. Raindal. Quickly, he would fall back; and his anxiety amused her. She soon felt ashamed of herself for teasing him and said abruptly:
“Oh! we are very uncomfortable!... Will you allow me, dear master, to sit beside you?”
“Of course, dear lady!”
Nevertheless, they had barely taken up again the study of the engravings when M. Raindal deplored his ready willingness.
Zoz perfume, now so close to him, made him feel dizzy with its effluvia. Whenever she bent down, the light texture of her floating dress released a stronger whiff. But it was no longer iris or violet; it was a sweet, warm odor like the scent of fruit, the live perfume of her flesh, married to that of the scent. And M. Rainda comments became muddled.
Of course, he knew that a chosen few possessed the gift of radiating a delightful fragrance through their epidermis. Several personages of antiquity were thus favored; there was, notably Cleopatra, according to a papyrus found at Boulaq, and quoted by M. Raindal in his book; Plutarch was no less precise concerning the skin of Alexander.
But, in recollecting these facts, and other similar instances, the master was but increasing the confusion of his ideas. He vainly groped for words. Each time that the perfume struck his nostrils, he pinched them shyly, as if they were threatened with a poisonous gas. He often remained speechless before a picture, unable to complete his interpretation of it. Absentmindedly, he dreamed of Alexande skin and the flesh of Cleopatra; he wished also thatZozé would not keep her gilded armchair so close to his.
“One word, may I say one tiny word, if I am not disturbing you?”
Mme. de Marquesse it was who made this appeal; she merely slipped between the hanging portières her profile with its powerful chin and the one white-gloved hand that held the curtain back.
“Come in, dear!” Mme. Chambannes said.
The two women kissed each other. M. Raindal saluted Mme. de Marquesse, and casually noticed that she wore a blue coat and skirt, black-braided and with a girth about the hips like a riding-habit. They begged his permission and retired to the next drawing-room. M. Raindal sighed deeply. Now that he found himself in calm solitude he suddenly lost all his anxiety. His impression was one of hidden pleasure, danger overcome and flattering mystery. In this new mood, he would even have thought it not unpleasant if his colleagues of the Academy had seen him in this luxurious room and near two such charming persons who treated him with so much respect. He was standing before the mirror, smoothing down his beard, his lower jaw brought forward, when the ladies returned.
Mme. de Marquesse wished to go. Zozé gracefully stood in her way, her arms stretched across the portière in a Sarah Bernhardt attitude.
“No! not yet!... Am I not right, dear master? Mme. de Marquesse cannot go like this?”
M. Raindal agreed silently. Zozé rang the bell and had port wine and biscuits brought in. The latter had a taste of vanilla for which M. Raindal showed great partiality. Mme. Chambannes wrote down for him the address of the confectioner who sold them. Mme. de Marquesse pretended to know a better brand. Each of the two praised her own dealer. The port wine had enlivened them—and, laughingly, forefingers stretched out, they taxed each other with appalling cases ofgourmandise. They called upon the master to act as referee but he gallantly declined. The argument made him laugh—and also the port wine, for he had drunk two glasses in quick succession, and his temples were warming up.
“Well, we are forgetting our work!” Zozé exclaimed suddenly.
Before M. Raindal had time to word a reply, the curtain was once more drawn aside. A bald, corpulent ecclesiastic, who seemed to be in his fifties and wore a broad smile under his broad spectacles, advanced slowly into the room.
“Ah! it is you, my dear abbé!” Zozé exclaimed in a tone which showed so much sincere surprise that it was hard to guess whether the pries visit had been planned beforehand or brought about by mere hazard.
She introduced the men to each other:
“M. bbé Touronde, director of the Villedouillet orphanage, our neighbor in the country and one of our best friends ... M. Raindal....”
The master bowed with the ceremonious affectationhe always showed in order to dissimulate his aversion towards those of the cloth.
Respectfully, the abbé asked, with a slight Southern accent:
“M. Raindal, the author of theLife of Cleopatra?”
“Quite so!” Zozé confirmed.
The abbé Touronde congratulated him profusely. He was not acquainted with the book itself, but had read enough accounts of it in the newspapers, to speak of it freely. He praised the master upon some particular chapters. M. Raindal thanked him with modest gestures of his hand as if he were fending off the compliments.
But the abbé went on, in a slightly droning voice. The book appealed to him all the more because he was no stranger to its subject matter. He had once studied Egyptian history thoroughly for a brochure he was preparing concerning the sect of the United Coptic Church. He had, moreover, published in theAnnals of Christian Archeology, two articles dealing with the Hagiographs of the Thebaid. M. Raindal confessed he had not read them; and the abbé volunteered “if it were not too indiscreet” to send the issues of the periodical that contained them.
His head was oval yet chubby, all flesh, as it were, but for a crown of brown hair around his baldness. M. Raindal thought he had a good-natured smile. Gradually the master thawed out. He imparted to the abbé some picturesque details concerning the Thebaid which, from professional instinct, he had explored.The priest listened studiously, showed him deference and solemnly nodded from the back of his head. Zozé took advantage of a pause to ask:
“You will stay for dinner, M. bbé?”
“Well, yes, madame,” he replied without hesitation, his round cheeks distended in a cordial smile. “Yes, surely, if you will have me!”
“And you, dear master?” Zozé pursued. “Will you join the party?”
“Oh, it is impossible, dear lady,” M. Raindal sighed. “I am expected.... Believe me, I am very sorry....”
He ceased abruptly as Chambannes entered, wearily caressing his thick hinge-like mustache. Everyone stood up. He shook hands with M. Raindal and asked, patting Zoz neck, as one might do to a school-girl:
“Well, how did the lesson go, my dear sir?... Are you satisfied with your pupil?”
“Very much gratified, monsieur ... an excellent beginning.”
“Oh, we have not accomplished very much!” Zozé said. “But you are coming next Thursday!... Thursday, I shall forbid the door.... I shall be at home to no one.... You promise to come, do you, dear master?”
M. Raindal promised. Zozé and Germaine went with him into the drawing-room and the latter left with him. They shook hands as they parted, Mme. de Marquesse pulling his arm so sharply that he felta cramp in the shoulder. He looked at his watch under a lamp-post. It was a quarter to seven.
“Sapristi!” he murmured, horrified.
And once more he hailed a cab.
The boldness of fear moved him to anticipate irony or unwelcome queries by an affectation of jovial talkativeness.
In a light vein, he told of his visit as if it had been a séance at the Institute or a lecture at the Collège de France. He multiplied the details, described the dresses and even gave an imitation of the abb southern accent.
Thérèse affected to be interested and replied with good humor; she seemed to have forgotten the mornin quarrel.
Mme. Raindal was silent. Why should she protest? Why should she wish to dissuade her husband from this fatal intercourse with people devoid of religion? Did she not know that he was irrevocably damned, marked beforehand, because of his own atheism, for eternal torments? She remembered, moreover, the maste anger at the occasion of the Chambannes’ dinner party: it was still alive in her mind and closed her mouth with wise caution.
She only allowed herself a frown when M. Raindal gave a parody of the abbé; her pained expression made Thérèse laugh so much that her father began to have his suspicions concerning her good-natured remarks.
This gayety of hers, this sweetness—were they truly frank? Was not Thérèse laughing at him? M. Raindal examined her furtively; then, waxing cautious, brusquely cut short his narrative.
He was more reserved the next Thursday. He barely mentioned his visit to the rue de Prony more than to transmit Zoz compliments to the ladies; and the following Thursday, he said nothing at all.
On the fourth Thursday, towards half past six, a telegram-card from M. Raindal was received in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. He asked his family not to expect him, as he was detained by the gracious entreaties of Mme. Chambannes. Under his signature, Zozé had written in her large handwriting:Approved.
To be quite frank, when M. Raindal had left home that day, he was not altogether unaware that he would not return for dinner, since he had, on his last visit, almost promised to be the guest of his pupil for the following Thursday. Nevertheless, he had done his best beforehand to consider this escapade as if it were to be an impromptu, which he had no cause to expect.
It was Thérèse who opened the message. She read it, shrugged her shoulders and threw it into the fire.
“What is it?” Mme. Raindal asked, coming in at that moment.
Thérèse replied sarcastically.
“A telegram from father who is staying over there to dinner!”
Over there! At these words the two women instinctively exchanged glances. Then, at once, seeing her mothe alarmed expression, Thérèse bent down over her notes. What was the use of saying more? They had never had any possible communion of the spirit; they had never formed against M. Raindal one of those little jocular alliances of the kind that amused the master and his daughter at the expense of Mme. Raindal! Bah! she must needs perforce resign herself to a solitary enjoyment—alone as usual, alone as she was everywhere—of the humorous side of this adventure!
“So, he is dining there?” the old lady repeated disconsolately.
“Yes, mother; as I told you!” Thérèse replied impatiently.
“And you think he will go there every Thursday?”
“I do know.”
In the same vexed tone, Mme. Raindal went on:
“Oh! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!... I do hope these Chambannes will bring him into no danger!... Tell me, you ... do you think you could say something to him?...
“Saywhatto him?”
“Tell him ... tell him ... to take care, for instance, not to entangle himself too deeply.... Dear, you know better than I do how to speak to him.... You are ... you are better friends!”
With this veiled reproach the old lady complained unwittingly of her isolation, of her life-long relegationwith her God, and her fears moved the heart of Thérèse.
“Listen!” she said more affectionately.... “Listen to me, mother! I assure you that there is as yet no danger.... Therefore, do worry before there is any need to.... And if yol believe me, let us meet father with pleasant faces; we must tease him.... I know him; we would only succeed in pushing him still deeper into the intimacy of those people.”
“And later?...”
“Later?... we shall see. We shall discuss it together and find out what is best under the circumstances.”
“Then you are willing that I should talk with you now and then about....”
She hesitated.
“Well ... of this ... of this affair?”
Thérèse rose to kiss her mother and held her tightly.
“Of course, dear mother!... You are so funny!... Why not?”
A tear rolled down the cheek of Mme. Raindal.
“I do know.... You have such a wicked air, you and your father ... sometimes, each at your desk, with never a word for me when I come in.... Upon my word I am afraid of you both!”
And she left, taking short, weary steps, to warn Brigitte in time.
At the same time, Mme. Chambannes, to please M. Raindal, was giving him the names of her guests.
“I assure you, dear master; it will be absolutely among ourselves.... My Uncle and Aunt Panhias, our friend, young M. de Meuze, and perhaps the abbé Touronde....”
She had hardly said his name when the latter entered the smoking-room.
He evinced great pleasure at meeting M. Raindal. Behind his spectacles, his eyes shone with joy. Zozé started them in conversation and ran out to dress.
“Yes,” M. Raindal said politely, “your articles seemed to me excellent, well thought out, replete with learning.... I am surprised—should I admit it?—that with this obvious gift for science, you have not made a, what shall I say? a more voluminous, more considerable literary output....”
“Oh, dear master, you are too indulgent, too ... too kind!...” the abbé stammered, his voice quivering with satisfaction.
He then justified himself eloquently for his lack of literary production. Could anyone rightly charge him with being lazy? No, his sterility was due to other causes. First of all, there was the orphanage which required his assiduous, daily care, care of all sorts, financial as well as moral, literary as much as administrative. Then, there were his enemies, his numberless enemies who, had he published more works, would not have failed to discover in that fact a new motive for calumny, as they found some inevery act of his, even the most virtuous, even the most innocent!
For there was no doubt about it, the abbé was, alas, the most calumniated priest of Seine-et-Oise. All the parties hated him! They all rivaled in ill-using him, in bringing him into discredit. Under the pretext that he was sought for at the neighboring châteaux—that of Mme. Chambannes, for instance, the Château des Frettes—the radicals of the region accused him before the prefect of carrying on a reactionary propaganda. On the other hand, anonymous denunciations poured in at the bisho palace, and they bore the clerical hall-mark. They asserted that the abbé Touronde compromised daily—here the abb voice was lowered and became confidential—the supereminent dignity of his cloth in worldly frivolity and association with heretics.
“Heretics!” the priest repeated with indignation. “Hah! can I pick and choose? Can I ask the donors for their regular baptism certificate? Should I decline the money of the Israelites who help me bring up my children?... Poor little things! Were it not for them, Heaven knows that the world, mundane frivolities, would not see much of me....”
He paused suddenly, as if he had heard the voice of his own conscience:
“Yes, yes, Bastien Touronde, you would still go there, because you enjoy good dinners, the sight of pretty women, luxury and comfort, and also because in the midst of this society, which knows little ofdogmas, you are aware that your presence among the temptations causes much less scandal than it would elsewhere....”
And the abb lips whispered softly, as they did on his visits to the bishop, when Monseigneur blamed him for his worldly behavior:
“Non culpabiliter! non culpabiliter!”
“I beg your pardon?” said M. Raindal, who had listened only with half an ear to these long complaints.
The abbé Touronde started.
“I was thinking of these bad men, dear master. In my own mind I was abusing them.... You know, we of the South, we are warm-blooded and our tongue is not always sufficiently Christian!...”
The return of Mme. Chambannes, followed by her Uncle and Aunt Panhias, brought the dialogue to an end. The introductions were made. Panhias was in evening clothes with a black tie. His head hung down, like that of a thinker, but the expression was that of a gray-headed bookkeeper. His gait, the way he stood and the folds of his bearded face showed the fatigue of one of those office clerks to whom money has come too late. Mme. Panhias, on the other hand, seemed optimistic and jovial. She wore a brown silk dress tightly stretched around her ample shape. She rolled herr’s more than Mme. Chambannes did, and only a connoisseur could have perceived the Oriental in her, through her semi-Spanish, semi-South-American accent.
A few minutes later Gerald and, behind him, George Chambannes entered the smoking-room. Both were in evening dress. Instinctively M. Raindal lowered his eyes to examine his own frock coat. The butler announced that Madame was served and the party went into the dining-room.
The dinner was cordial and merry. M. Raindal felt no longer the shyness and the self-consciousness of an unwelcome stranger which had made him stiff at first. From so much intercourse with the Chambannes, he had become familiar with the names of their relations, the ways of the house and the tastes of the guests. In consequence, there were very few conversations in which he now hesitated to take his share owing to discretion, fear of a faux-pas or ignorance of the subject. Nothing seemed to trouble him any more. The ogling and the perfume of Mme. Chambannes now proved to be nothing more than stimulants to his ready tongue. They addressed each other as comrades, with a slight touch of fatherly superiority on the part of M. Raindal and of willing submissiveness on that of Mme. Chambannes. Even Chambannes made use, when he spoke to the master, of such turns of speech as were reserved as a rule for old friends. How different from the first dinner, when M. Raindal had felt himself so awkward and slow in recovering his heartiness. When Uncle Panhias admitted, absent-mindedly or under the effect of the wines, that Smyrna was his native town, the master almost congratulated him! Smyrna, the pearlof Tonia, was an exquisite city; its Greek name meant myrrh or incense, the perfume beloved of the gods. He never stopped until dessert was served, praising the city, supporting his theory with anecdotes and historical reminiscences. Aunt Panhias thanked him with enthusiastic replies that were to each of his sentences as the rolling of a drum.
When they went to the smoking-room, Zozé asked M. Rainda leave to light a cigarette. Then, by slow degrees, she went over to Gerald. He had let himself fall down on the divan and was sending spirals of smoke to the ceiling through his pouting lips. She sat beside him and asked coaxingly:
“What are you making a face for?”
He did not reply at first but, after a while, he grunted. “Is this kangaroo going to be here often?”
Zozé suppressed a smile.
“I do know! I hope you are not jealous.”
Gerald sneered contemptuously.
“Jealous!... Well.... No!... But he does bore me somewhat!... Your little friend is too fond of hearing himself talk.”
He rose and joined Chambannes, who was pouring himself a glass of brandy in front of the liqueur cabinet.
M. Raindal was unconsciously gratified when he saw their conversation ended. He was taking careful stock of “young M. de Meuze,” as Zozé had termed him; young Gerald was in the light of a lamp over which he bent in order to relight his cigar. Well, hewas not so very young, in spite of appearances! The light now revealed at the corners of his eyes, of his lips and of his nostrils, through his still firm, youthful face, undefined lineaments, the colorless signs of forthcoming lines; and the veins were beginning to stand out on his temples.
This put M. Raindal in good humor, a feeling that confused him, since he had pretentions to generosity and magnanimity. Was it any reason, because M. de Meuze did not bestow admiring glances upon him, because the ma face had worn a constant expression of bored peevishness, to rejoice in these signs of the fatal decrepitude which advancing years....
Mme. Chambannes interrupted him in the midst of this return to fairness.
“Tell me, dear master!... What about our great visit to the Louvre?”
Alas, they must give up the idea of it for this week, as they had had to the previous weeks for a month, the “great” visit had been put off from week to week. Zoz every day was taken up. They finally decided to wait and settle upon the date at the next lesson. The conversation turned to less serious subjects. Aunt Panhias, as if she were relieved from a professional secret, let herself go on the subject of Smyrna. Fearing to fall asleep, M. Raindal withdrew at eleven. Downstairs, Mme. Chambannes asked him to invite the ladies on her behalf; would they join him and come to dinner on the forthcoming Thursday? He thanked her profusely but, once he was in the street,he could not repress the annoyance which this difficult mission caused him.
“What an idea!” he said to himself.... “Ah, yes, how easythatwill be!”