“Good-by, dear madame.... I hope soon to meet you again.... Please give my compliments to M. Chambannes.”
Zozé protested.
“What, master! Do you want me to drive you home?... In such weather!”
With a quizzical frown she showed him the sidewalk which the thawing temperature had apparently coated with syrupy iced coffee. The master declined. From outside her coupé, Zozé insisted, beating the leather of the cushions as if she were calling a little dog. M. Raindal lost all his composure. If the students, or some of his colleagues were to see him in this ludicrous position! Fear carried the day. He sat beside Mme. Chambannes.
“Tha better. It would have been silly to refuse,” Zozé said, and she lowered the front window to give the address to her coachman.
When she closed it again, M. Raindal noticed with relief that all the panes were covered with steam. Protected from sight by the opaque glass, he began to feel more at ease. He smiled at Mme. Chambannes, who was smiling at him.
The carriage rolled rapidly over the carpet of yellow snow. A soft warmth came from the hot water can; the pleasant scent of morocco leather blended with that of violets. M. Raindal sighed with comfort and, waking up, said paternally, to try to blot out the rudeness of his attempted leave-taking:
“It appears then, dear madame, that the lecture did not bore you too much?”
“Quite the contrary! Moreover, I firmly hope that, next time....”
“What next time?”