She joined him, concealing her reluctance to leave Androvsky with the priest, and walked beside him down the path, preceded by Bous-Bous.
“Is my fete going to be a failure?” he murmured.
She did not reply. Her heart was full of vexation, almost of bitterness. She felt angry with Count Anteoni, with Androvsky, with herself. She almost felt angry with poor Father Roubier.
“Forgive me! do forgive me!” the Count whispered. “I meant no harm.”
She forced herself to smile, but the silence behind them, where the two men were following, oppressed her. If only Androvsky would speak! He had not said one word since they were all together. Suddenly she turned her head and said:
“Did you ever see such palms, Monsieur Androvsky? Aren’t they magnificent?”
Her voice was challenging, imperative. It commanded him to rouse himself, to speak, as a touch of the lash commands a horse to quicken his pace. Androvsky raised his head, which had been sunk on his breast as he walked.
“Palms!” he said confusedly.
“Yes, they are wonderful.”
“You care for trees?” asked the Count, following Domini’s lead and speaking with a definite intention to force a conversation.