The master rose to his feet. He was watching for Mme. Chambannes’ first glance, for her fatigued expression and the lowering of her eyes with which she would undoubtedly greet him. Zoz physiognomy disappointed him. She walked up to him, smiling as usual, her eyes free and easy under her veil, raised up, like a headband, level with her eyebrows. She offered him her white-gloved hand without constraint, as she had the day before, as on the previous morning, as if neither the night, nor Gerald, the scene in the park, as if none of those shameful things had come between them! He gave her hand a timid pressure and sat back in the rocking-chair.
“Will you allow me to say a few words to you, dear madame?” he asked, looking at his brown leather shoes.
“With pleasure!” Mme. Chambannes answered deliberately, as she pulled an armchair beside that of the master.
She sat down and caressed the master with one of her warm looks: “I am listening, dear master.... Have you any trouble? Not from your family, I trust?”
Still smiling, she took her gloves off. Then she lifted her arms, like two graceful handles on each side of her face, and with difficulty pulled out the long pin which held her sailor hat.
“You are mistaken!” stammered M. Raindal, his eyes still unresponsive. “It is precisely of Langrune that....”
His hands hanging loose, his wrists contracted. The ingenuous air of Mme. Chambannes revolted him as a last challenge to his credulity.
“Well?” asked the young woman.
He dared to stare at her. What! Those lips were still fresh after so much defilement! No trace of it had polluted the clearness of her eyes. Not even a shudder; not a blush! Did lies then wash out everything in their foul waters? A renewed anger roused M. Raindal. His caution was shaken. The prepared words vanished. Looking straight at her, his hands grasping the armchair as if better to spring, he declared roughly:
“I am going!”