Sharply Thérèse pulled her hand back and said with vexation:
“Oh, father, do make any comparison, please.... M. Boerzell does not appeal to me.... I refuse him.... Tha enough.... I think I am old enough, am I not?”
The master did not reply. There was no doubt about it. It was that tall man, that sort of worldly Dastarac, who had spoiled everything and ruined the prospects of little Boerzell owing to that advantageous height of his. A lost attempt! M. Raindal became absorbed in self-recriminations. Nothing more was heard but the noise of the wheels on the pavement and the vibrations of the carriage windows in their frames.
Thérèse, her head bent back, was apparently dozing, and so was Mme. Raindal in her corner. But she was not asleep. A remorseful torture, more atrocious than a nightmare, kept her eyes awake under their lids. With anguish she was estimating the number of hours that would stretch before the next morning, the blessed moment when she could confess her recent sins in the peace of the Church. Had she not, prompted by thirst, or led into temptation, helped herself three times to iced coffee and twice to marquise au champagne, without counting a number of petits-fours and other dainties?
CHAPTER V
IT was past eleven lock and Mme. Chambannes had almost finished dressing when someone knocked at her door. Her maid opened it just enough to allow one arm to pass in, holding a special delivery letter, while a voice proclaimed:
“Telegram for Madame.”
“Give it to me ... quick!” Mme. Chambannes said.
Her maid was fastening her dress, but left it and hurried to take the message.
Mme. Chambannes tore it open with trembling fingers and read rapidly, glancing hurriedly at the lines: