“It is from Vigny, madame!” said M. Raindal, as he joined her in the little salon at the back of the box.
Chambannes went out. They remained alone. M. Raindal asked himself whether it would do to repeat his kiss of the morning, if only to signify to Mme. Chambannes that his new intentions persisted. But finding himself still slightly irresolute, he thought it best to remain on the safe ground of literary conversation.
Just as he was beginning to tell of the tragic love affair between de Vigny and Mme. Dorval, however, the door was suddenly pushed open. A tall dark man stood at the entrance of the box. M. Raindal saw nothing at first but his black moustache and his big laughing eyes.
“Ah, M. de Meuze!... Come in!” Mme. Chambannes exclaimed, with ready ease.
Nevertheless she blushed, and between her eyelashes came such a caressing, joyous, submissive look directed toward Gerald that M. Raindal felt suddenly hurt. He wanted to join their conversation, criticize the players and praise the music. But the words refused to come at his bidding. A sudden rush of ill humor flooded his inspiration. He got up.
“Are you going out, dear master?” Zozé asked.
“Oh, just for one minute to stretch myself and get some fresh air.”
He had unwittingly banged the door. He wandered aimlessly along the passages until he came to the loggias of the staircase.
“You!” Chambannes exclaimed, as he came forward to meet him.
M. Raindal replied dully: