“Why?” asked Zozé, blowing out her smoke. “One must not take offense for so little, in the country.”
Those three words constituted her favorite motto at Les Frettes, a permanent justification for all the fantasies of dress and behavior which her gloom and her idleness invented.
She took advantage of it, the next morning, to dispense with Anselm services for their ride. The coachma presence had obviously paralyzed M. Raindal.
“A very good idea!” the master said approvingly, as soon as they had started. “Besides he was of no use at all, that fellow.”
Thereupon he seized his little pupi hand so brusquely and violently that Notpou—such was the almost Egyptian-sounding name which Mme. Chambannes had bestowed upon her pony—shied with fear, under the pain from his suddenly pulled bit.
“You must keep quiet, dear master?” Zozé chided, as she brought the animal back to its pace. “You are scaring Notpou.... Yol have us tipped over!”
“It was such a long time!” M. Raindal stammered.
She smiled indulgently. Suddenly emboldened, the master asked, in the absent-minded tone he used on such occasions:
“And the Messrs. de Meuze?... Did you have any news from them?”
Mme. Chambannes replied, making an effort to repress the blood she felt rushing to her face: