A tremendous thunder-clap made him start to his feet. How long had he been there? His head a little confused, he stepped out into the deserted and motionless garden. The fragrance of the tulip-trees made the air heavy. Under the vacant arbor wasps were heavily flying about the heeltaps in the champagne glasses and the bits of sugar left in the cups, which the mountaineer’s woman was hurriedly clearing off, seized by the nervous fear of an animal at the approach of a thunder-storm and making the sign of the cross each time the lightning flashed. She informed Numa that the young lady had found herself with a bad headache after breakfast and so she had taken her to Bayard’s chamber to sleep a little, closing the door “vary gently” in order not to bother the gentleman at his work. The two others, the fat lady and the man with the white hat, had gone down toward the valley and without any doubt they would catch it, because there was going to be a terrible ... “just look!”
In the direction she indicated, on the choppy crest of Les Bauges and the chalky peaks of the Grande-Chartreuse, which were enveloped in lightning flashes like some mysterious Mount Sinai, the sky was darkened by an enormous blot of ink that grew larger every instant, under which the whole valley took on an extraordinary luminous value, like the light from a white and oblique reflector, according as this sombre and growling threat continued to advance. All the valley shared in the change, the reflux of wind in the tops of the green trees, the golden masses of grain, the highways indicated by feathery clouds of white dust raised by the wind and the silver surface of the river Isère. In the far distance Roumestan perceived the canvas pith helmet of Bompard, which shone like a lighthouse reflector.
He went in again but could not take hold of his work. For the moment sleep no longer paralyzed his pen; on the contrary he felt himself strangely excited by the presence of Alice Bachellery in the next chamber. By the way, was she still there? He opened the door a little and did not dare to shut it again for fear of disturbing the charming slumber of the singer, who had thrown herself with loosened clothes on the bed in a troubling disorder of tumbled hair, open corset and white, half-seen curves.
“Come, come, Numa, beware! it is the bedroom of Bayard; what the deuce!”
Positively he seized himself by the collar like a malefactor, dragged himself back and forcibly seated himself at the table. He put his head between his hands, closing his eyes and his ears in order to absorb himself completely in the last phrase, which he repeated in a low voice:
“Yes, gentlemen, the sublime advice of the mother of Bayard, which has come down to us in that mellifluous tongue of the middle ages—would that the University of France....”
The storm was so heavy and depleting, like the shade of certain trees in the tropics, it took away his nerve. His head was swimming, intoxicated by the exquisite perfumes given forth by the bitter flowers of the tulip-trees or else by that armful of blond hair scattered over the bed not far off. Wretched Minister! It was all very well to cling to his speech and to invoke the aid of the chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, public instruction, religious culture, the rector of Chambéry—nothing was of any use. He had to return into Bayard’s bedchamber, and this time so close to the sleeping girl that he could hear her gentle breathing and touch with his hand the tassel stuff of the curtains which framed this provoking slumber, this mother-of-pearl flesh with the shadows and the rosy undercolor of a naughty drawing in red chalk by Fragonard.
But even there, on the brink of temptation, the Minister still fought with himself and in a mechanical murmur his lips continued to mumble that sublime advice which the University of France—when a sudden roll of thunder, whose claps came nearer and nearer, woke the singer all of a jump.
“Oh, what a fear I was in—hello! is it you?” She recognized him with a smile, with those clear eyes of a child which wakes up without the slightest embarrassment at its own disorder; and there they remained motionless and affected by the silence and growing flame of their desire. But the bedroom was suddenly plunged in a big dark shadow by the clapping-to of the tall shutters, which the wind banged shut one after the other. They heard the doors slam, a key fall, the whirling of leaves and flowers over the sand as far as the lintel of the door through which the hurricane plaintively moaned.
“What a storm!” said she in a very low voice, taking hold of his burning hand and almost dragging him beneath the curtains—