Monin was not quick to rise, and he was looking for his cap, which the swing had knocked off, muttering:
“I am at your service in a minute, madame. You see, if I should go home without my cap, my wife would make a row.”
Really vexed, Athalie turned her head and saw Monin trying to climb a tree to reach his cap, which the swing had sent flying to a high branch. The young woman laughed heartily, then jumped down from the swing and walked away, seeking Auguste and Madame Destival in every thicket.
After scouring the garden to no purpose, she returned to the place where she had left Monin; he was still at the foot of the tree, which he had tried vainly to climb, gazing despairingly at his cap, lodged on a branch, which he could not reach, and seeking in his snuff-box some inspiration as to the means of recovering it.
“Which way did they go, monsieur?” asked Athalie, stopping beside him. He looked stupidly about and said:
“Who, madame?”
“Monsieur Dalville and Madame Destival.”
“I can’t tell you—unless they’ve gone to drill too.”
Athalie went toward the house. Destival was still with Bertrand on the terrace. The young woman entered the salon; it was empty.
“This is very polite,” said Athalie; “a perfect gentleman that! It seems that there is no standing on ceremony here. I would like right well to know if Monsieur Dalville is with Madame Destival. She had a sick-headache; I am curious to know how she gets rid of it.”