M. Raindal promised. Zozé and Germaine went with him into the drawing-room and the latter left with him. They shook hands as they parted, Mme. de Marquesse pulling his arm so sharply that he felt a cramp in the shoulder. He looked at his watch under a lamp-post. It was a quarter to seven.
“Sapristi!” he murmured, horrified.
And once more he hailed a cab.
The boldness of fear moved him to anticipate irony or unwelcome queries by an affectation of jovial talkativeness.
In a light vein, he told of his visit as if it had been a séance at the Institute or a lecture at the Collège de France. He multiplied the details, described the dresses and even gave an imitation of the abb southern accent.
Thérèse affected to be interested and replied with good humor; she seemed to have forgotten the mornin quarrel.
Mme. Raindal was silent. Why should she protest? Why should she wish to dissuade her husband from this fatal intercourse with people devoid of religion? Did she not know that he was irrevocably damned, marked beforehand, because of his own atheism, for eternal torments? She remembered, moreover, the maste anger at the occasion of the Chambannes’ dinner party: it was still alive in her mind and closed her mouth with wise caution.
She only allowed herself a frown when M. Raindal gave a parody of the abbé; her pained expression made Thérèse laugh so much that her father began to have his suspicions concerning her good-natured remarks.
This gayety of hers, this sweetness—were they truly frank? Was not Thérèse laughing at him? M. Raindal examined her furtively; then, waxing cautious, brusquely cut short his narrative.
He was more reserved the next Thursday. He barely mentioned his visit to the rue de Prony more than to transmit Zoz compliments to the ladies; and the following Thursday, he said nothing at all.