“But you see it is impossible.” He looked at his watch: “I ought to be at Versailles at noon.”
“Then I will wait for you and take you to the station.”
He hesitated a second, not more than a second:
“All right, I will put my signature here and then we will go.”
While he was writing Rosalie was giving Méjean news of her sister in a low tone. The coming of winter affected her spirits; she was forbidden to go out. Why did he not call upon her? She had need of all her friends. Méjean gave a gesture of discouragement and woe: “Oh, so far as I am concerned....”
“But I tell you yes, there is a good deal more chance for you. It is only caprice on her part; I am sure that it cannot last.”
She saw everything in a rosy light and wanted to have all the world about her as happy as she was—O, how happy! and glad with so perfect a joy that she indulged in a certain superstition never to acknowledge the fulness of her joy to herself. As for Roumestan, he talked about his affair everywhere with a comical sort of pride, to indifferent people as well as to his intimates:
“We are going to call it the child of the Ministry!” and then he would laugh at his joke till the tears came.
And of a truth those who knew about his existence outside, the household in the city impudently established with receptions and an open table, this husband who was so sensitive and tender and who talked of his coming fatherhood with tears in his eyes, appeared a character not to be defined, perfectly at peace in his lies, sincere in his expansiveness, putting to the rout the conclusions of those who did not understand the dangerous complications of Southern natures.
“Certainly, I will take you there,” said he to his wife as they got into the carriage.