“No signs of Scevola,” she said, advancing towards Peyrol. “And Michel, too, has not been here yet.”
Peyrol thought that if she had been only shorter, what with her black eyes and slightly curved nose she would have looked like a witch. But witches can read people’s thoughts, and he looked openly at Catherine with the pleasant conviction that she could not read his thoughts. He said:
“I took good care not to make any noise upstairs, Mademoiselle Catherine. When I am gone the house will be empty and quiet enough.”
She had a curious expression. She struck Peyrol suddenly as if she were lost in that kitchen in which she had reigned for many years. He continued:
“You will be alone all the morning.”
She seemed to be listening to some distant sound, and after Peyrol had added, “Everything is all right now,” she nodded, and after a moment said in a manner that for her was unexpectedly impulsive:
“Monsieur Peyrol, I am tired of life.”
He shrugged his shoulders and with somewhat sinister jocosity remarked:
“I will tell you what it is; you ought to have been married.”
She turned her back on him abruptly.