All of a sudden the brakes scraped, and the train came sharply to a stop. One heard the cry of "Mâcon! Mâcon!"
"Mâcon already!" said Martha.
That "already" rang delightfully in Raoul's ears. There was much in that already. Raoul profited by the five minutes' stop to complete and fix his little sketch, which was slightly jolted; and he did not notice that his young brother-in-law had been sent out with a despatch to the telegraph-office. The despatch had been secretly written by Mme. Derame, and had, too, been directed to the Old Club.
The train started—4.11. Raoul had not thought to get down to see if under the railing there was not a despatch addressed to him. There was one, which was to remain eternally at Mâcon. The telegram contained these words: "Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage."
The train ran on and on, and now there was question of another dress—a silk dress, light pink, with a large jabot of lace down the front. Raoul literally dazzled Martha by his inexhaustible fertility of wise expressions and technical terms.
While the express passed the Romanèche station (4.32) father Chamblard came into the Old Club, went into the card-room, and met father Derame. Piquet? With pleasure. So there they sat, face to face. There were there eight or ten card-tables—piquet, bezique, whist, etc. The works were in full blast. First game, and papa Derame is rubiconed; the second game was going to begin when a footman arrives with a despatch for M. Chamblard.
"Will you excuse me?"
"Certainly."
He reads, he becomes red; he rereads, and he gets scarlet.