“None!... I believe that they are at Deauville until the end of the month, as I told you last week.... They were to arrive there the day before I left Paris.”
M. Raindal, his hands hanging, directed a studious look at her.
“In that case, they are not coming here?”
“Not that I know of, during August,” Zozé replied, having almost conquered her blush. “After that, it will be the shooting season.... So ... you see!”
“Quite!” the master murmured, while in his heart he ragingly abused Thérèse.
Ah! how he wished she were here, for an instant only, so that she could hear this! That was the way people made accusations and spread calumny, without proofs, acting upon suspicions and uncertain jealousies! “A woman who publicly gave herself a lover!” M. Raindal repeated to himself. Publicly! A lover! Where?... At Deauville, perhaps! (For, gradually, the master had narrowed down his suspicions and centered their watchfulness upon the head of Gerald, the only young man, after all, whom Mme. Chambannes saw frequently.) Yes! At Deauville, fifty leagues from Les Frettes, neglecting his love affair for a month and even more! A fine lover indeed!... How mean and unfair people were! He let out a contemptuous laugh.
“Are you laughing, dear master?” Mme. Chambannes inquired.
“I am laughing,” he replied between two kisses, “I am laughing at the wickedness, or more exactly at the stupidity of mankind!”
The daily schedule soon became regular. Whenever the heat did not prevent it, the morning was spent in driving.
They eschewed the fashionable places beyond Poissy, in the neighborhood of Saint Germain. They preferred to follow the course of the Seine, driving towards Poutoise or even Mantes, an uneven, hilly and often imposing region which attracted the master, as it had Mme. Chambannes.