“What a night it is, M. Maugin! I wish you were safely at home.”
“I don’t, then!” cried Zénaïde, so earnestly that they all laughed. But the remark made by Clarisse bore its fruit, and the soldier rose to go. But it took him some time to get off. There was his lantern to light, his gloves to button; and the girl took all these duties on herself. At last the soldier was in readiness; his hood was pulled over his eyes, a scarf wound about his throat, then Zénaïde said good night, and watched her Esquimau-looking lover somewhat anxiously down the street. What perils might he not have to run in that thick darkness!
Her stepmother called her impatiently. The nervous excitement of Clarisse had momentarily increased. Jack had noticed this, and also that she looked constantly at the clock.
“How cold it must be to-night on the Loire,” said Zénaïde.
“Cold, indeed!” answered Clarisse, with a shiver.
“Come,” she said, as the clock struck ten, “let us go to bed.”
Then seeing that Jack was about to lock the outer door as usual, she stopped him, saying,—
“I have done it myself. Let us go up stairs.”
But Zénaïde had not finished talking of M. Maugin. “Do you like his moustache, Jack?” she asked.
“Will you go to bed?” asked Madame Rondic, pretending to laugh, but trembling nervously.