“My dear,” he answered evasively, “I assure you that this is becoming ridiculous. Ramond will have the right to be angry.”
She went over to her desk, to arrange some papers which were on it. Then, after a moment’s silence, she said:
“It is odd; now you are siding with grandmother and Martine. They, too, are persecuting me to end this matter. I thought I had a few days more. But, in truth, if you all three urge me—”
She did not finish, and he did not press her to explain herself more clearly.
“When do you wish me to tell Ramond to come, then?”
“Why, he may come whenever he wishes; it does not displease me to see him. But don’t trouble yourself. I will let him know that we will expect him one of these afternoons.”
On the following day the same scene began over again. Clotilde had taken no step yet, and Pascal was now angry. He suffered martyrdom; he had crises of anguish and rebelliousness when she was not present to calm him by her smiling freshness. And he insisted, in emphatic language, that she should behave seriously and not trifle any longer with an honorable man who loved her.
“The devil! Since the thing is decided, let us be done with it. I warn you that I will send word to Ramond, and that he will be here to-morrow at three o’clock.”
She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground. Neither seemed to wish to touch upon the question as to whether the marriage had really been decided on or not, and they took the standpoint that there had been a previous decision, which was irrevocable. When she looked up again he trembled, for he felt a breath pass by; he thought she was on the point of saying that she had questioned herself, and that she refused this marriage. What would he have done, what would have become of him, good God! Already he was filled with an immense joy and a wild terror. But she looked at him with the discreet and affectionate smile which never now left her lips, and she answered with a submissive air:
“As you please, master. Send him word to be here to-morrow at three o’clock.”