“It is all Clément’s fault. He must have had a smash up.”
He spoke so loudly that everybody heard and turned towards him. The long wait had become unbearable to all. The hands of the clock pointed to eight.
Again Madame Dulaurens tried to hide her anxiety. “Clément,” she said, “is very careful. But these cars are dangerous at night. One can so easily run into something in the dark.”
“Where did he go?” asked the women.
“That is just what is worrying me. He left for La Chênaie at five o’clock. It would hardly take him ten minutes, it is only two miles. And he hasn’t come back.”
Anxious as ever for peace, M. Dulaurens assured them that nothing had ever happened to Clément.
“Not to Clément,” Marthenay sarcastically put in. “He is a young devil! He is always running over something,—hens and dogs, and the other day it was an old woman.”
“We paid her,” said Madame Dulaurens indignantly. “And paid her very well indeed.”
“She is limping about on your money.”
M. de Lavernay gallantly, and without any suspicion of irony, explained to his hostess that there were unfortunate creatures who were in the habit of throwing themselves in front of motor cars, so as to make money out of the owners. All except Mademoiselle de Songeon, who hated progress, were in favor of this fashionable sport and were busy defending it when Clément entered, looking very jolly and with a red face, his fur coat covered with frost which shone in the light.