Dish after dish goes from Madeline untasted. She breaks a little bread, that is all, and drinks a little Bordeaux and water. Her face is white as death, and all the tremendousness of the situation is full upon her.
Monsieur Belleisle, for his part, feeds ravenously, and drinks more than one bottle of light wine. He is agitated, but preserves his composure. In his heart he curses the unwelcome third party present; he burns for a tête-à-tête.
Third party proceeds leisurely with his dinner, only addressing the waiter in monosyllables. He is a man of thirty, of splendid physique and perfect health. He seems to see and hear nothing, but all the time his eyes and ears are wide open. He starts when the young lady—whom he has been watching quietly—speaks in the English tongue.
‘The chambermaid says there is a train from this place to Rouen. It leaves at daybreak, Monsieur Belleisle.’
‘We will talk of that to-morrow,’ murmurs the Frenchman, with his mouth full.
‘That will be too late. I will leave by the first train, and get a cab from Rouen to Millefleurs. I will explain all—they may punish me as they please—I do not care.’
‘Diable, and what will then become of me?’
‘I don’t know—I suppose you will lose your situation, but you will soon get another.’
Monsieur sinks his voice and whispers—
‘Another wife, mignonne? Ah non! If you abandon me I shall blow out my brains;’ then, still in a low voice, inaudible to the other person in the room, he continues, ‘But you are mad, my Madeline, to think of going back.