She ran to her room. Ten minutes later, her muff under her arm, she was fastening her gloves outside the house, waiting for the cab she had sent for.
CHAPTER VI
THE cab passed slowly through the parc Monceau, and proceeded faster through the Champs Elysées towards the boulevard Saint Germain.
Mme. Chambannes sat huddled up in the left-hand corner; her feet pressed on the hot water bottle, scorching her soles on the white metal; rocked by the motions of the carriage, she all but closed her eyes.
She opened them for an instant on entering the boulevard Saint Germain, looking out to peep at the rue de Bourgogne where Gerald lived with the Marquis; then she dozed off again.
She preferred not to think, to let herself remain benumbed with sleepiness. Yet, when the cab left the rue de Rennes and turned into the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, Mme. Chambannes instinctively straightened herself up, as does a traveler at a change of scenery.
The street was deserted and lined with long, austere buildings. Were they colleges, seminaries or convents? Mme. Chambannes did not know. Most of them had black iron bars that stretched their dark stems against daylight and the noise from outside. Here and there she noticed a few houses that had none and were not quite so high as the others. Beyond them, the bare heads of the trees spread their leafless branches. She could guess at courtyards behind, immense gardens and discreet paths where people walked and meditated.
In her own district of the plaine Monceau, there were streets that Mme. Chambannes had thought no less mournful. On some afternoons, even during the week, they gave an impression of Sunday calm and the houses seemed empty of people, as if all had gone to the center, to the gayety of the boulevards. Yet here the aspect was a different one; the quietness was less idle and seemed to vibrate with thought. She felt that there were crowds behind these strong walls, all busy with pious or cherished occupations: a silent activity, zeal, ambition and faith, and disciplined passions. At moments a hidden bell sent a deep note into the air.
Without much understanding, Mme. Chambannes felt a little shiver of surprise. She imagined a multitude of monks and nuns dwelling in these buildings. They knelt down and prayed, in long black or gray rows. The dark sanctuaries softened their silhouettes and the smoke of incense twisted its curls above their heads. She had a sudden curiosity to be among them, to learn their prayers and share their ecstasies. Especially she wished to go in and see.
Her driver had to knock at the window to warn her that they had reached the house. The concierge was an old woman with catarrh. She told her where M. Rainda apartment was: at the end of the path, on the fifth floor, and the door on the right.