At any other time of his life, he would have blushed thus to frustrate his family. But duty is a burden that is best borne by all the parties together. And M. Raindal certainly found a pretext for his egotism in the attitude of his family.
It was not that a state of warfare had been openly declared. Far from it; faithful to their compact, the two women multiplied their concessions in order to preserve the old harmony. Thanks to their efforts, the household had never seemed freer from discord. They vied with each other as to who should most skillfully avoid any allusion, contradiction or motive for disagreement. The master, on his side, fearful of their sarcastic comments, preserved silence concerning his weekly dinners. It had come to this, that the name of Chambannes was never uttered, unless it became necessary; even then, the women wrapped up its syllables with a light intonation, as one rolls explosives in cotton-wool. Whenever M. Raindal formulated unexpected theories upon the public usefulness of luxury, the dangers of puritanism, or the social advantages of pleasure, Thérèse discussed them with him without the slightest bitterness, as if they were matters of economics which bore no relation whatsoever to their daily life. As an additional precaution, she had persuaded Cyprien to renounce his usual jesting comments concerning Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan. The younger Raindal now kept his sallies for his usual audience of one, Schleifmann.
Nevertheless, in spite of this outward appearance of calm and good entente, the master had no longer the feeling of peace and confidence he had felt in his home. He guessed every action and word of his to be spied upon, jeered at and censured either aloud or in low voices. He could hardly contain his anger against this secret, impalpable, yet ever awake, hostility which continuously dogged his movements.
While dreading its outbreak, there were nevertheless days when he could not help wishing for an open dispute, a straightforward attack, a solid and clear-cut family altercation, when each one could cry out his grievances and defend his own cause.
Let them attack him; let them but ask a question and he would know how to exonerate himself! What harm was he doing, anyhow? Was he running from salon to salon, as did so many of his colleagues? Had he taken advantage of his triumph to break into the little literary Bastilles which were the final goal of so many paltry ambitions? Had he not, on the contrary, declined, one after another, all the invitations given him, by Mme. Pums, by Mme. Herschstein, by Mme. de Marquesse, even by ladies of higher social status whom he could name if called upon? Had he not a score of times discreetly urged his wife and daughter to pay the call they owed the Chambannes? Was he not ready to take them to the rue de Prony as often as they could wish? Did he manifest any spite, as so many others might do, for all the deceptions and for the bitterness which Mme. Rainda uneasy religiosity had scattered between them? Did he play the part of a bad husband, a bad father, a frivolous and dissipated man?... Well then, what was it they reproached him with? Why was he compelled to suspect his own family as he had to suspect his own sworn enemies? There was that wretch of a Saulvard, for instance, who carried the rancor of his defeat to the point of declining three successive invitations of Mme. Chambannes.... The entanglement of his worries, added to the silence he imposed upon himself, made him feel disgusted with his own house, his home and everything that he had until then considered as happiness and quiet.
He proved his own innocence to himself so often that doubts came to him at times. He asked himself whether his friendship with young Mme. Chambannes was not such as might cause him some prejudice in the scientific world, whether it might not be more seemly for him to allow more time to pass between his visits, and whether his regularity might not be affording the evil-minded an opening. At once a rebellion which he attributed to pride moved him to smile at such scruples. He derived from his reflections a new energy for the indulgence of his inclination. Throughout the week, he lost no opportunity, whether at the dining-table or elsewhere, to flay the ridicule of pedantry, the hypocrisy of austere people, a whole mass of foibles and of anonymous characters, upon whom, with no less good grounds, Mme. Raindal, Thérèse and Uncle Cyprien might have bestowed their own names as well. Thus came the Thursday, and he made his exit with a provocative, almost bellicose, banging of all the doors in succession.
He reached the Chambannes’ house, from the very hall a warm smell of incense caressed him as a first greeting of welcome, and his resentment vanished. Here everyone smiled at him and showed an eagerness to please him, from Firmin, the butler, who took his overcoat and affectionately inquired about his health, to the abbé Touronde, to Aunt Panhias and even the indolent Chambannes himself! Upstairs, Zozé came out to meet him and gave him her hand to kiss. And, during four good hours, M. Raindal forgot his vexations, his family troubles, his little pangs of the past week. Only when it was time for him to go did he remember them. When eleven lock came, he had an impression of melancholy, of an ended happiness, like a boy who must return to college.
Zozé always accompanied him to the hall, saw to it that he covered himself well, told him not to catch cold. As the end of the winter was in sight, she murmured to her husband, once the door was closed:
“Poor old fellow!... All the same, it is a long way to go for a man of his age.... I am glad that spring is coming back.”
Whenever the weather permitted it, M. Raindal returned on foot, for the sake of the exercise. The road seemed a long one to him but, as he neared the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he slackened his pace and his steps became less regular. It was as if he wished to delay the moment of regaining his home.