On the fourth Thursday, towards half past six, a telegram-card from M. Raindal was received in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. He asked his family not to expect him, as he was detained by the gracious entreaties of Mme. Chambannes. Under his signature, Zozé had written in her large handwriting: Approved.
To be quite frank, when M. Raindal had left home that day, he was not altogether unaware that he would not return for dinner, since he had, on his last visit, almost promised to be the guest of his pupil for the following Thursday. Nevertheless, he had done his best beforehand to consider this escapade as if it were to be an impromptu, which he had no cause to expect.
It was Thérèse who opened the message. She read it, shrugged her shoulders and threw it into the fire.
“What is it?” Mme. Raindal asked, coming in at that moment.
Thérèse replied sarcastically.
“A telegram from father who is staying over there to dinner!”
Over there! At these words the two women instinctively exchanged glances. Then, at once, seeing her mothe alarmed expression, Thérèse bent down over her notes. What was the use of saying more? They had never had any possible communion of the spirit; they had never formed against M. Raindal one of those little jocular alliances of the kind that amused the master and his daughter at the expense of Mme. Raindal! Bah! she must needs perforce resign herself to a solitary enjoyment—alone as usual, alone as she was everywhere—of the humorous side of this adventure!
“So, he is dining there?” the old lady repeated disconsolately.
“Yes, mother; as I told you!” Thérèse replied impatiently.
“And you think he will go there every Thursday?”