One morning, as he returned from mailing the fourth letter to them in one week—three having been left unanswered—he caught up with the village postman on whose route the château was.
“A letter for you, monsieur!” the man said as he saluted.
The master slowed down. It was a letter from Langrune. The Raindal ladies admitted that he was right in his remarks concerning the heat. Consequently, they would delay their departure and not return to Paris until about September 15th. Of Les Frettes, of Mme. Chambannes, not a word was said.
“Fools!” the master murmured with disappointment.
But his satisfaction was stronger. After all, this gave him the desired postponement, the right to remain at Les Frettes. Who knew but that the two women, had they been coming, would have made him uncomfortable with their humiliating surveillance! As to their coldness, their hidden enmity, he would see them on his return, and subdue them, cost what it might!
He walked so fast that he met the postman coming out of the door of the château.
In the middle of the terrace, the stone balustrade of which ran all round the house, Zozé sat dreaming in a wicker armchair. In front of her some opened letters lay on a little table beside the tea tray.
“Anything new, dear master?” she asked. “The postman told me he had given you a letter.... Was it from your family?”
M. Raindal stammered confused explanations.
“Well, then, when will you be leaving?” asked Zozé calmly.