Gradually, however, the teaching turned into a chat. Egypt, its chronology, mysteries and hieroglyphics were put aside. Mme. Chambannes confided to the master her amusements of the past few days or bits of social gossip, or she sketched for his benefit the character of some of her chief women friends. M. Raindal had no curious details to give of his own daily life and went back to the hard times of his youth. Zozé expressed much pity for him because he had greatly suffered from want and opened her tender eyes wide when he told her of certain privations he had undergone.
Sometimes—and this with a persistence which was only worn out one day to reappear the next—she begged M. Raindal to translate the footnotes of his Life of Cleopatra for her. Invariably the master refused, alleging that if he did, Mme. Chambannes would be the first to regret his compliance. Moreover, the greater number of the words belonged to what was termed low Latin and were untranslatable.
He felt strangely oppressed when, one night, after dinner, the abbé Touronde called him aside and informed him that Mme. Chambannes had almost succeeded in becoming acquainted with the meaning of the forbidden annotations.
“Would you believe it? The day before yesterday, she asked me if there existed a dictionary of low-Latin! I replied, ‘Yes, Madame; there is the Dictionary of Du Cange.’ ... ‘Well, my dear abbé, please be so kind as to buy it for me!’... I smelled an evil temptation and replied, with some readiness of wit, I may well say: ‘Alas, Madame! it is no longer on sale.... It has been out of print these forty years.’ Later she admitted that she wanted it to translate your notes. You will agree that but for me....”
M. Raindal warmly pressed the hand of the cautious ecclesiastic.
Apart from the abbé Touronde, and in accordance with the particular desire of the master, Mme. Chambannes invited only her near relatives on Thursdays, such as her Uncle and Aunt Panhias or the Marquis de Meuze, who had solicited the favor of being a guest at those select dinners.
Gerald was afraid of being bored and scarcely ever attended them. Zozé took pride in this constant abstention, taking it for a symptom of a jealousy she had never hoped to arouse.
Who could have foretold that these conversations, sprung from an idle caprice, a fortuitous inspiration, were to serve, one day, as reprisals against the perpetual coquetry of the young Count! Moreover, these were harmless reprisals and allowed Gerald, at the most, to take lessons from an old lady!... Is there no equality in love, and are not the rights of the one an exact replica of the rights of the other? Zozé, at least, firmly held to this view.
It made her more attached to M. Raindal. He was an ally, as it were, a show accomplice; when her friends asked her, in Geral presence, if her flirtation with her “old savant” still endured, she defended herself with malicious smiles, with a “how silly you are!” or a “leave me alone!” which revealed her joy at the coincidence. How M. Raldo must rage, how much more he must now love her!... Had not caution held her back, she would, at those moments, have kissed him for sheer gratefulness.
Again, the exclusive intimacy with which M. Raindal honored her brought her daily flattering comments. The rumor of it spread among her guests. People talked about it. They questioned Mme. Chambannes touching the maste habits, as if they had been those of a savage she had miraculously tamed. Many women thought this friendship a suspicious one, this craze for learning incomprehensible, this preference on the part of the master unaccountable, and they protested that “there must surely be something behind all this.” Others said of Zozé that she was mad, and disparaged M. Rainda personal appearance. The most faithful pleaded and recalled the irreproachable tenderness of the young woman for Gerald. But these arguments left Marquesse shrugging his shoulders and Herschstein humming a hunting air, with this much to add to their skepticism, that the master had twice already declined the pleasure of appearing at their tables. These stories were good enough for women! Facts were still facts. Let the Chambannes pride themselves upon monopolizing père Raindal; nothing was more natural. But to come and tell them that the old man came there for the sake of science, for the love of art, oh! dear no, not to Herschstein or Marquesse! This much, and no more, did they concede to the defense, that they did not specify what the nature of the flirtation was, or its limits.... And yet, one does see such strange things in life! It seemed therefore best to these equitable men to remain on the ground of suppositions and to render no decision.