“I—I have not spoken to her of it lately,” he said in a stifled voice.
“Ah well,” said Romain, “perhaps you are right. She is a sympathetic woman, but, of course, in your situation it would be difficult to unmask Flaubert.”
“I may have to leave the situation,” said Jean. “It will be impossible for me to stay longer with Monsieur Flaubert.”
Romain looked at him again, and again he was sharply conscious of the wish that Jean had been his son. It was absurd, he would have disliked to have a son of that age very much, and three years ago he had actually despised Jean; he despised him now a little, but he liked him more than he despised him.
“Bon!” he said. “I will go and fetch the little bag; your aunt will be enraged, but I shall tell her the goodness of the case and conceal the prettiness of the girl; and, Jean, I cannot give you anything for yourself. I should, you know, rather like to. Go and order a suit at my tailor’s. You know the man? I never pay him. No, don’t thank me, only if you should find yourself in any particularly bad place—or rather in no place at all—I have a little châlet at Joinville by the river. You might run down there for a few days; they’ll look after you all right—only let me know first, as it is sometimes occupied, and be careful that you never let your aunt have the address. I do not think the climate would suit her. You are sure you won’t have anything to drink? I have an engagement to lunch out, or I should ask you to stay.”
“Thank you, Uncle Romain,” said Jean simply. “I felt sure you would help me. I fear I shall not see you for some time. Jacques Cartier has suggested my going with him to Russia for a year; I think that I shall go.”
Romain glanced keenly at his nephew; then he looked away.
“And the Toriallis,” he drawled indifferently, “you will not return to them?”
“It is not likely that I shall return to them,” said Jean.
Romain rose to his feet and tapped Jean lightly on the shoulder.