One Sunday, at dinner, Chanteau became quite gay, after venturing to drink a glass of Burgundy, a luxury for which he had to pay very dearly each time that he indulged in it. Pauline and Lazare had spent some delightful hours together by the sea under the bright blue sky, exchanging looks full of tenderness, though marked with that haunting fear of themselves which infused such passion into their intimacy.
They were all three smiling, when Véronique, who was just about to bring in the dessert, called from the door of the kitchen:
'Here comes Madame!'
'Madame who?' cried Pauline, with a feeling of stupefaction.
'Madame Louise!'
They all broke out into exclamations. Chanteau, quite scared, gazed at Pauline and Lazare, who had turned very pale. But the latter rose excitedly from his seat and stammered angrily:
'What! Louise? She never told me she was coming, and I had forbidden her to do so. She must be mad!'
The twilight was falling, soft and clear. Lazare threw down his napkin and rushed out of the room. Pauline followed him, struggling to regain her cheerful serenity. It was indeed Louise who was alighting with difficulty from old Malivoire's coach.
'Are you mad?' her husband cried to her across the yard. 'Why have you done such a foolish thing without writing to me?'
Then Louise burst into tears. She had been so poorly at Clermont, she said, and had felt so depressed and weary. And as her two last letters had remained unanswered, she had felt an irresistible impulse to set off, a yearning desire to see Bonneville again. If she had not sent him word of her intention, it was because she feared that he might have prevented her from satisfying her whim.