She took a chair and said:
“How gay your study is!... How light!”
“Oh, we do lack daylight here!” M. Raindal replied. “The room has quite a good light.”
Mme. Chambannes continued:
“You were working?... I interrupted you....”
“With the most agreeable of possible surprises,” M. Raindal answered, with a wave of his hand.
The conversation dragged on. Thérèse wore a persistent frown, said little and was absorbed in drawing lines on a sheet of paper. Mme. Chambannes’ visit roused her indignation. Why had that woman come? What more did she want? What right had she to disturb them with her prattling, her childish queries and her very presence which brought back the memories of the previous evening, the shame of that accursed party?
“Your windows look out on gardens, do they not?” Mme. Chambannes asked.
“Upon gardens and our whole Paris! We have a marvelous view from here!” he replied.
She walked with him to the window. At last the sun had burst through the clouds and scattered the fog. Below them was all M. Rainda Paris, the whole of the religious, studious and simple-minded Paris, stretching out its stiff endless stone buildings in a milky light. The tops of certain edifices rose high above the level of the others. To the right was the square tower of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, then the immense dome of the Pantheon, then a thin, fine point—the spire of the Sorbonne. Further to the left rose the shining sphere of the cupola of the Missions and at the end a truncated pyramid upon which floated a tiny, discolored flag: the palace of the Louvre. Between these, the houses sketched in the air the irregular lines of their roofs. The thin-hooded chimneys bristled in compact ranks, like reversed bayonets. At the back was a deep hollow space, indicating avenues and a park; it was the Luxemburg, but it could not be seen.