Between Emma and me, Lerne fidgeted about. He crumbled the bread, and dallied with his fork, and suppressed anger would make him bring down his fist on the cloth till the cups and glasses rattled.
One day, by mischance, my foot knocked against him. The Doctor suspected this innocent foot of light behavior. He attributed to it telegraphic intentions, and, persuaded that it had communicated through its toe some pedestrian and stealthy love-sign, he decreed at once that Mlle. Bourdichet was feeling unwell, and would thenceforth take her meals in her own room.
So two passions occupied my thoughts—hatred of Lerne, and love of Emma, and I resolved on the most audacious plans to satisfy them both. It so happened that on that very day, my uncle said to me suddenly that he wanted to take me in the car to Nanthel, where he had business. I fancied I saw a chance of escape from his vigilance.
The next day was a Sunday, and Grey was celebrating the Feast of its Patron Saint. I should know how to profit by that!
“With pleasure, Uncle,” I said. “We shall start in the car, barring accidents.”
“I should prefer to go in the car to Grey, and then take the train to Nanthel. That will be the surest way.”
That suited my book admirably.
“Very well, uncle.”
“The train starts from Grey at 8 o’clock. We shall come back by the 5.13. There is none before that.”