“But really now, do you never have a nice time of it?” again asked Octave.
“Well, never like people describe,” replied she.
He looked at her full of a pitying sympathy. All for nothing, and without the least pleasure. It was certainly not worth the trouble she gave herself, in her continual fear of being caught. And he especially felt a certain relief to his pride, for he had always suffered a little at heart from her old disdain. He recalled the circumstance to her.
“You remember, after one of your attacks?”
“Oh! yes, I remember. Still, I did not dislike you; but listen! it is far better as it is, we should be detesting each other now.”
She gave him her little gloved hand. He squeezed it, as he repeated:
“You are right; it is better as it is. Really, one only cares for the women one has had nothing to do with.”
It was quite a blissful moment. They stood for a while hand in hand, deeply affected. Then, without another word, they pushed open the padded door of the church, inside which she had left her son Camille in care of the woman who let out the chairs. The child had fallen asleep. She made him kneel down, and did the same herself for a minute, burying her face in her hands, as though in the midst of a fervent prayer. And she was rising to her feet when Abbé Mauduit, who was coming from a confessional, greeted her with a paternal smile.
Octave had simply passed through the church. When he returned home every one was on the alert. In the doorway, as Octave passed, Lisa, who was gossiping with Adèle, had to content herself with merely staring at him; and both resumed their complaints of the dear price of poultry beneath the stern look of Monsieur Gourd, who bowed to the young man. As the latter was going up to his room, Madame Juzeur, who had been on the watch ever since the morning, slightly opened her door, and, seizing hold of his hands, drew him into her ante-room, where she kissed him on the forehead and murmured:
“Poor child! There, I won’t keep you. Come back and talk with me when it’s all over.”