She did not miss one now; she sighed gently, the delicate ghost of a sigh, then she said: “Jean, petit Jean, since it is all over, since we can consider Flaubert as already gone, you will stay with us? You will take his place?”
At last Jean turned his eyes on her, and she saw a most peculiar look in them; it was the same look she had seen once in the eyes of a dog which had been run over in the street.
“Jamais, Madame,” said Jean in a very low voice, “jamais!”
“Mais pourquoi pas, Jean?” she murmured; her hands moved towards him.
Jean rose to his feet; he felt dizzy and uncertain of himself; he could not stay near her any more.
“One moment, Jean,” said Gabrielle quietly, “sit down again.” Jean obeyed her. “What has happened?” she asked very simply.
Jean bowed his head in his hands; he could not tell her what had happened—she might make him believe that it had not happened; she was almost making him believe it now.
“Don’t you think you owe me the truth?” said Gabrielle at last. It was she who rose now; she stood before him with the dignity of a proud woman who has not been justly used. She threw back her head and looked at Jean. “Indeed it seems to me you owe me that,” she said.
Jean got up and came close to her.
“Madame,” he said, “just now you said to me that you wished me to take Flaubert’s place. What is Flaubert’s place?”