“Quite right! I obey,” M. Raindal said.
He sat facing her at the other table and took up some papers on which he began to make notes. Everything was dark about the room with the exception of a few golden threads shining in the texture of the gold curtains and the thin yellow circle which the lamp threw on the ceiling. The only sounds were the somewhat halting breathing of M. Raindal, the crackling of the coke in the fireplace, and now and then a neighboring bell giving out at long intervals a few isolated, mournful sounds. Suddenly the master exclaimed:
“What about your mother?... Has she come home yet?”
“No,” Thérèse replied, “but she will not be long.... She cannot be much longer.”
And without ceasing to write, she added with a slight touch of sarcasm:
“It seemed to me.... No, I ought not to tell you.... Well, since I have begun, let it go!... I thought before I came in that I saw Mother entering the Church of St. Germain-des-Prés!”
“Again!” M. Raindal murmured with a tone of commiseration.... “That is at least the second time since this morning.... It is deplorable!”
Thérèse smiled and looked at her father.
“What can you expect?... It makes her happy and soothes her!”
M. Raindal made a melancholy grimace.