“Three months!” repeated M. Raindal, whose mind had been struck by the cruelest of the three figures given. And he added with sincerity: “It pains me very much, my dear friend!”
At the same time he had seized Mme. Chambannes’ hand and greedily pressed his lips upon it. She sighed with pity. Poor père Raindal! How heavy his heart must be!
She thought to herself, “Am I wicked!... Yes, I am to him what Gerald is to me, tha all!” Then, at the thought of the latte name, a fresh idea struck her. After all, why not?... It would be a very innocent revenge, a companionship and a relaxation which were as good as any. And so, with a little smile, she asked, as she drew away gently from under the lips of M. Raindal the hand which she had forgotten:
“Listen, dear master, what would you say about spending a few weeks at Les Frettes?... Would that upset your habits too much?”
M. Raindal contracted his forehead.
“I?... No! not at all!” he said, with the sensation of a comforting river bathing his heart. “But, there is my wife, and my daughter.”
“Why, they would come, too!”
“Do you think so?” the master asked doubtfully.
“Of course, unless they refused, unless they have reasons to decline.”
M. Raindal remained silent for a time. His face showed his discomfort. He rebelled against the need of denouncing his domestic tormentors. At length he exclaimed: