Flaubert was not usually a quick man, but he acted with the agility of a cat at this crisis of his career. He had no intention whatever of trying to defend himself, but he lost no time in disappearing swiftly under the table.
There was a crash of china, the cloth was swept on to the floor, the azure carpet was drenched in broken foods, priceless blue Worcester lay in fragments, and then Jean kicked the table over and clutched the flowered dressing-gown. Shriek after shriek rose on the air; the present of Romain did its work with swiftness and skill; only one of Flaubert’s vases was broken, and this disaster was simply owing to his having clung at the wrong moment to one of his companion’s legs.
Suddenly the cries ceased, the portière at the door was thrown aside, and Gabrielle stood in the room.
Jean flung down his stick and turned to face her. Flaubert cringed, white and trembling, against the useless shelter of the table. None of the three spoke for a moment.
Then Madame closed the door behind her and floated forward into the middle of the room; her eyes wavered and passed over the broken crockery, they glanced lightly at Louis’ prostrate form, and rested on the open window and the blue, spring sky.
Something extraordinarily different had come into the atmosphere of Flaubert’s room; nothing had changed, chocolate still dripped on to the azure carpet, and yet Jean could have sworn it was all a dream. Nothing violent had happened, nothing violent could happen in the presence of Gabrielle Torialli.
She stood there, with the sun on her hair, in a grey Japanese silk gown; there were faint peach-blossom embroideries here and there, and the lining looked like a soft pink cloud.
“I came down rather early,” said Madame gently and impersonally. “Torialli has just received a message from one of the Princes, who has sprained his ankle and wants to amuse himself with a lesson, chez lui! Torialli would like you to go to him, Louis—you know the Prince’s ways.”
Self-pity choked Flaubert completely for a moment; then he managed to gasp out: “How can I? Madame—ask yourself—like this?”
Gabrielle’s grave, child-like eyes rested on him for a moment, and then returned dreamily to the broken vase.