“ ...One of those important merchants, as I said, one of those rich traders whose caravans....”
Mme. Chambannes! Mme. Chambannes at his lecture, in a blue skirt, a white veil and her otter fur coat! Who could have expected such foolishness, such a childish caprice? And now she was making little signs at him as one does to friends in a theater from box to box: “How do you do, M. Raindal. How do you do, how do you do,” the head of Mme. Chambannes kept on saying.
She desisted, at last, when she noticed that the maste face remained impassive despite her politeness.
Moreover, the coldness of M. Raindal was not her only cause for disappointment. To begin with, she did not understand anything of this story about the paintings of the late Rhanofirnotpou. What! Paintings in a tomb! The great trader must have been an original character! And then she was astonished by the setting.
She had thought that she would enter a grandiose amphitheater, with the audience crowding on the tiers built of oak and varnished by age. Below she had imagined a huge chair as high as that of a judge, and flanked by two ushers with silver chains. In the chair, M. Raindal in a crimson red velvet robe bordered with ermine.... M. Raindal discoursing, playing with his braided bonnet, drinking sugar and water and interrupted at every word by his enthusiastic audience....
What a disillusion! What a contrast to the realities! Who could have imagined this narrow hall with dirty gray walls, those two imitation bronze busts—Plato and Epictetus—perching like Chinese pottery upon two pedestals of imitation stone, this coarse white wood bench that resembled a kitchen table, and rush-bottom chairs piled up on one side near the washed-out Plato as in an old furniture storeroom.
Zozé felt almost the same imperceptible melancholy which the spectacle of misery inspires in worthy people. She sought distraction in a successive inspection of the backs and of the necks of the eight students. Two were already bald. Three showed between the shoulders the shining line which the hard back of the omnibus pressed into the cloth. The coat of another was faded. Towards the end of the table, to the left was one with a brown mane—oh, what a wol head!—he surely did not squander his money at the hairdresse!...
She was full of pity for these brave young men. She wished she could give them advice about their clothes, and if necessary help them with her purse.
A scraping of chairs brought her back from her charitable dreams. The lecture was finished. M. Raindal had disappeared. But where? Through the wall, no doubt. And not even a sign of applause! Zozé was dumfounded.
She stood up, cramped from having sat so long, and followed the students who were passing out. Some made way for her. None of them stared at her. And those who walked ahead did not turn round to look. She found them discreet and well-bred but somewhat shy.