She tried to evince surprise despite the calm of her face.
“How, so, dear master?”
“Yes, yes!” he pursued more distinctly, as if relieved by the admission.... “You know it well enough, my dear friend.... You have known it since the day of my departure from Les Frettes, you remember?” He collected his thoughts and shook his head. “Is it not sad and ridiculous at my age, eh?... At my age!... Old and decrepit as I am!... Bah! it is not your fault.... I bear you no grudge.... But, I beg of you, do come here again.... Leave me alone.... Let me cure myself, if I can!... It will be more charitable!”
Almost the same words that Thérèse had used, an instant before and, indeed, almost the same tone! Mme. Chambannes, who was, at bottom, not heartless, felt herself thoroughly upset.
“Good-by, then, dear master!” she sighed, and offered her hand to M. Raindal.
“Good-by, my dear friend!” said the master, whose face was twisted with pain.
Passionately he pressed to his lips her little black-gloved hand, truly a hand of funerals and eternal parting.
“Good-by, good-by, since you wish it!” Mme. Chambannes repeated.
“No, I do not wish it!” M. Raindal specified. “I must wish it!”
She passed out, disappeared on the stairs, with her cadenced gait that the master so much admired.