The governess was keeping in the background at the other end of the salon. She was looking at some pictures in a book that she had only dared to half open.
"Come, my dears, shall we begin to read the play?" said Mme. Mauperin. "It's no use waiting for Henri; he will only come to the last rehearsals when the actresses are well on."
"Oh, just now, mamma, let us talk first. Come and sit here, Noémi. There—we have a lot of little secrets, so many things that have happened since we last met to tell each other about—it is ages ago."
And Renée began prattling and chirping away with Noémi. Their conversation sounded like the fresh, clear, never-ending babbling of a brook, breaking off now and again in a peal of laughter and dying away in a whisper. Noémi, who was very guarded at first, soon gave herself up to the delight of confiding in her friend and of listening to this voice which brought back so many memories of the past. They asked each other, as one does after a long absence, about all that had happened and what they had each been doing. At the end of half an hour, to judge by their conversation, one would have said they were two young women who had suddenly become children again together.
"I go in for painting," said Renée, "what do you do? You used to have a beautiful voice."
"Oh, don't mention that," said Noémi. "They make me sing. Mamma insists on my singing at her big parties—and you've no idea how dreadful it is. When I see every one looking at me, a shiver runs through me. Oh, I'm so frightened—the first few times I burst out crying——"
"Well, we'll have a little refreshment now. I've saved a green apple for you that I was going to eat myself. I hope you still like green apples?"
"No, thanks, Renée dear, I'm not hungry, really."
"I say, Denoisel, what can you see that is so interesting—through that window?"
Denoisel was watching the Bourjot's footman in the garden. He had seen him dust the bench with a fine cambric handkerchief, spread the handkerchief over the green laths, sit down on it in a gingerly way in his red velvet breeches, cross his legs, take a cigar out of his pocket and light it. He was now looking at this man as he sat there smoking in an insolent, majestic way, glancing round at this small estate with the supercilious expression of a servant whose master lives in a mansion and owns a park.