He closed the window, renouncing the stars. He sat on his bed once more and began to cry.
Ended were his illusions! Gone his old ma fatuity! He would leave the next day. He would not be a witness of their humiliating amours. Never again would he see his dear little pupil. And he wept.... It was at last a sincere sorrow, without evil spite, without any parody of vanity, a humble sorrow which acknowledged itself and loved its tears! In this M. Raindal found peace and finally sleep.
On the morrow, however, when he went down to the garden about ten lock, a sudden commotion reopened his secret wound.
“Yes, monsieur, madame has gone out,” Firmin assured him. “She has gone out for a drive with M. de Meuze.”
“Which one?” M. Raindal almost shouted.
“With M. le Marquis.... M. le Comte and monsieur are still in their rooms.”
“Ah! very good!” M. Raindal said, recovering his ease.
He sat in a rocking-chair, in the shadow of the terrace and affected to be engrossed in reading the paper.
But his set eyes were not on the lines. An internal passion was following other ideas, other words, the little parting speech, a few mysterious and firm sentences in which he would announce his intention to leave. He had mastered the greater part of it when the close-cut mane of Notpou emerged from between the trees.
From the carriage, the Marquis gave a cordial salute to M. Raindal. Oh! there had been no delay! no hesitation! The master was thoroughly ousted, deprived of his power! Even Geral father, this old marquis, had taken his little pupil away from him; even of him he felt jealous! Go! He must go as soon as possible! His own suffering necessitated this prompt sacrifice.