And he promised himself to neglect nothing that could bring distraction to his little pupil.
He even consented to play tennis with her, one afternoon, for fear of disappointing her. Zozé was on one side, M. Raindal and Aunt Panhias together on the other. Rather because he was all out of breath than for fear of compromising his own dignity, the master gave it up after a few minutes. His success in that game had been mediocre. Moved by a feeling of self-denial, Zozé did not repeat the attempt.
She also meant to show solicitude. She was sorry for poor M. Rainda family worries, of which he had given her a few significant illustrations. Whenever the master opened a letter from Langrune in front of her, she never failed to inquire whether his ladies showed less malice.
“Phew!... Icy.... Always ice-like!... Inquiries as to my health.... News of their own.... Compliments for you.... Kisses.... Hardly ten lines.... Read for yourself!”
She scanned the page, remembering Geral letters—notes whose laconism hardly exceeded that of the maste relatives.
“Yes, dear master!” she sighed.... “As you say, humanity is very stupid!”
On such days, out of pity for his sorrows which were so similar to her own, she was less rigorous towards the furtive kisses with which M. Raindal sought out her hands, gloved or bare, on every possible occasion. She racked her brains to order delicate dishes which she knew would please him. Then, the dinner ended, if he did not fall asleep, she read to him in the drawing-room—a newspaper or a volume of history. She read timidly, doing her best, with incorrect intonations, little gir errors which almost melted the maste heart. Or else—height of delights—she accepted his arm for a walk in the garden, along the lawn, in front of the terrace. When the sky was cloudy, M. Raindal, under the veil of obscurity, daringly kissed the young woma hand. Once he almost risked a nearer kiss, on her neck, taking advantage of the half-décolleté evening dress which Mme. Chambannes wore. But, on the verge of executing the movement, he was seized with such a fear that he stopped dead on the spot.
“Are you ill, dear master?” Zozé asked.
“No!” he replied, starting again. “I was listening to the wind in the branches!”
When he reached his room after these nocturnal frolics, he had difficulty in going to sleep. Reflections bubbled in him in foaming cascades. He counted up the number of kisses Mme. Chambannes had tolerated since the morning: one in the Verneuil wood, another in the park before lunch, another in the afternoon, in Zoz own room, where he had gone on the pretext of asking for a book, a fifth and even a sixth one in the evening, below the terrace.... He modestly admitted to himself that these were childish calculations and not devoid of vanity!