"Obviously," M. Hervart was saying to himself, "if I have any sense left, I shall take the train home. First of all, I must go to Cherbourg and send a telegram to some one who can send a wire to recall me. What a nuisance! I was joying myself so much here. To whom shall I appeal? To Gratienne? I shall have to write a letter in that case, to concoct some story. Three or four days longer won't make matters any worse; I know these young girls. Time doesn't exist for them; they live in the absolute. So long as there's no jealousy—and I don't see how there can be—I shall be all right. She is really charming—Rose. Lord! what a state of excitement I'm in! But I must be reasonable. I shall tell Gratienne to meet me at Grandcamp. She has been longing to go to Grandcamp ever since she read that novel about the place. Besides, there are the rocks. I'm quite indifferent provided I get away from here...."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Can you ask, my dear child?"
A squeeze from the little hand showed that his answer had been understood. Silence settled down once more.
"Gratienne? At this very moment she's probably with another lover. But then, think of leaving a woman alone in Paris, in July? 'I am never bored. I dine at Mme. Fleury's every day; she loves having me. We start for Honfleur on the 25th. You must come and see us.' She imagines that Honfleur is close to Cherbourg. 'I am never bored,' Come, come; When women speak so clearly, it means they have nothing to hide.... On the contrary it's one of their tricks...."
"Well, my child, how's your wretchedness? Is it all over?"
"I am very happy," Rose answered.
A look from her big limpid eyes confirmed these solemn words and M. Hervart was more moved than at the moment of her surrender. The idea that he was the cause of this child's happiness filled him with pride.
"Better not disturb Gratienne. She's so suspicious. Whom shall I write to, then? My colleagues? No, I'm not on intimate enough terms. Gauvain, the animal-shop man? That would be humiliating. What a bore it all is! Leave it; we'll see later on. And after all, what's the matter? A little sentimental friendship. Rose lives such a lonely life. Why should I rob her of the innocent pleasure of playing—at sentiment with me? Summer-holiday amusements...."
"Oh," said Rose, "look at that beetle. Isn't he handsome."