She paused a little while before pulling the cord of the bell. She wanted to look about her. Opposite stood the wall of the next house on the other side of the path. But to her right, she saw gardens, uneven houses, a whole panorama of strange roofs, separated by streets or a purple mixture of trees. A perfume of pot-au-feu escaped from the door of the Raindal family.
She rang at last and was ushered into the drawing-room by Brigitte.
Mme. Raindal, dressed in black silk, was chatting with two elderly ladies whose dresses showed no care for the fashions of the day. She hesitated on seeing Zozé, then recognized her and went to her.
“I came to inquire about the young patient,” Mme. Chambannes said, as she sat in the dark-red plush arm-chair which Mme. Raindal offered her.
“Thérèse! She is quite well again.... She is working with her father.... You shall see her very shortly.... How kind of you to....”
Mme. Chambannes thanked her with a smile.
Mme. Boudois, one of the two visitors, the wife of a professor at the Sorbonne, exclaimed:
“Poor child!... Has she been ill?”
“Not much, thank Heaven!” Mme. Raindal replied. “A mere indisposition while she was dancing at the Saulvards last night....”
The other lady, Mme. Lebercq, the wife of the famous mathematician, inquired: