He heard Andree’s voice. He went to her.
The next morning they were in the garden walking about. They had been speaking, but now both were silent. At last he turned again to her.
“Andree, who was the other man?” he asked quietly, but with a strange troubled look in his eyes.
She shrank away confused, a kind of sickness in her eyes.
“What does it matter?” she said.
“Of course, of course,” he returned in a low, nerveless tone.
They were silent for a long time. Meanwhile, she seemed to beat up a feverish cheerfulness. At last she said:
“Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?”
“We will see,” he replied.
The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned, entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion to redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much.