‘Go to bed, darlipg,’ Paul whispered. ‘Good-night. I’ll make your excuses. You mustn’t show up before strangers with a face like that.’
He pressed his lips to hers, took both hands ardently in his own for a second, and walked hastily back into the salle à manger. The doyen stood with his beaver on the table before him, and his white hands smoothing the folds of his soutane.
‘I beg your pardon,’ cried Paul, ‘but my wife called me away. She is suffering from some slight indisposition, and we have made up our minds to rest here for a little while.’
‘Indisposition!’ cried the priest; ‘I am sorry to hear that. But in one respect you are fortunate. Here in this infecte little village—you would barely believe it, but ‘tis true—we have the king of all European doctors. Shall I bring him to you?’
‘Are you indeed so fortunate? Paul asked laughingly. ‘Bring him by all means.’
‘There is nothing pressing about the case? the doyen asked.
‘Nothing pressing,’ Paul responded.
‘The morrow will do, then?’
‘The morrow will do admirably.’
The old priest withdrew with a cordial hand-shake, and Paul lit a cigar and sat down to look at the newly-revealed position of affairs. The alliance between Annette and himself had been of the most trivial sort, and he had condemned himself for it a thousand times. But now a new feeling took possession of him, and she had grown suddenly sacred in his eyes. The burden which had sometimes galled him had grown welcome in a single instant.