Zozé, without releasing the hand of her Raldo, frowned as she examined M. Raindal. Then she rose and pulled the young man after her.
“Come! Let us go on the terrace.... I shall feel safer.”
Then she sighed: “Oh! my own Raldo! What a bore that he stayed!... And you know.... We have him here for another fortnight!”
“Yes, you told me! Well! If he is in our way, wl lead him a chase, the old kangaroo!... It ca be very hard to do that.”
They were leaning on the white stone balustrade. With extreme caution, M. Raindal opened his eyes. From where he was, he had only a side view of Mme. Chambannes, her vase-like pale blue dress, her fine profile turned to the right.... That was so, no doubt, because she was speaking to Gerald whom he guessed was very close to her, elbow to elbow, as he himself had leaned over, up above, in the lighted room, on the day of his arrival! He held his breath back in order to try to hear them. He could distinguish nothing but a gentle melody of confused voices, a cascade of softened syllables, whose meaning was broken by the invisible partitions of the air.
At times, the young woma profile shook or plunged into the darkness. The conversation was cut short by a dead stop. M. Raindal, his hands stuck to his armchair, contemplated with a feeling of distress the pale dress, the headless trunk of his little pupil. Why did she bend so? For what mystery did she incline her whispering, laughing lips?
Suddenly, a tall shadow passed behind Mme. Chambannes; Geral silhouette, even his rose and his moustache showing distinctly. Nimble steps went down the front steps. The pebbles of the paths in the garden squeaked. Now, there came, at intervals, a low voice in a monologue. Her head immobile, Mme. Chambannes seemed to listen to him; her finger before her face made gestures of refusal.
Forgetting all caution, M. Raindal opened his eyes very wide. Zoz brusquely turning about caused him to close them again, but barely in time. What was happening? She came into the drawing-room, looked for something—hearing a rustling of silk and lace, M. Raindal assumed that it was a scarf—then went out again on tip-toes, turning round an instant as she reached the French windows.... Then he heard her heels on the steps and on the gravel of the path.
“This is going rather far!” the master murmured, as he rose and stretched himself.
He listened. Everything was silent outside. Where had she run away? Yes, to the garden, to walk with young Gerald.... But if they were walking, how could he explain the silence? Had they, by any chance, gone beyond the customary limit, as far as the lawn, perhaps even beyond that? An unlikely liberty! Yet M. Raindal wanted to make sure of it. In his turn he came to lean on the white stone balustrade. In disorderly bounds his heart beat against his ribs, and this continuous hammering extended to his left arm like a hollow internal alarm-bell. His eyes scanned the garden.