“It is I, on the contrary, Monsieur....”
They stood facing each other in distress as if, in spite of their mutual good will, they did not know what to say.
Shyly M. Raindal glanced at the young woman. Her little eagle face was softened by light brown eyes with a languorous expression; the waves of her black hair, brushed in classic style back towards her neck, concealed in its rich coils something savage and willful. At length she spoke again in halting sentences, the words often lacking the precision which she might have desired.
“Yes, Monsieur, I greatly admire your book.... It is a charming book, a great masterpiece.... I cannot say how much I was charmed with it, and how much amused.... Ah! it must be so interesting to write books like that.... And the style is so delightful, so pleasant to read!...”
“Well, I must leave you!” M. Saulvard interrupted, as he blinked his slanting eyes.... “My guests.... Excuse me!...”
He disappeared leaving them alone, as the members of the little group had discreetly vanished one by one.
After a glance of mutual agreement M. Raindal and the young woman sat down to continue their conversation.
But he noticed the pale blue satin dress of Mme. Chambannes so close to the black cloth of his trousers that instinctively he withdrew slightly to one side. Smilingly she piled up her compliments. Then the discomfort which the master habitually felt when conversing with people of inferior culture—ignorant people, men or women of society—was increased by the embarrassment he felt at being so close to the low-cut dress of his admirer. Despite himself his glances were fastened to it and followed her full and easy curves. It seemed to him that an invisible force compelled his eyes to look at that skin, dull and diaphanous like a piece of fine china, at those perfumed breasts that rose and fell quietly against the ruffles of the opening without needing its support for their young firmness. Distractedly, all out of place, with sudden flights of thought, he answered the exclamations and multiple queries of Mme. Chambannes. And while he tried to listen to her he was comparing her to one of Cleopatr attendants, one of those dainty Greek slaves whose saucy prettiness provided a setting for the Queen of Egypt, as nymphs around a goddess.
Nevertheless the lad flow of praise was ceasing. Her smooth little brow, framed by the two flat curls, was furrowed by a searching frown. She found no more chapters or passages in which to plant her “so charming” and her “so pretty” like equal good marks of alternate colors. Suddenly her graceful face smiled again and her wide nostrils palpitated with mischief. She teased M. Raindal with the challenge that he could not guess her last reason for liking his book so much.
The master pretended to search. Finally he declared with modesty: