M. Langis drew near her, and, lightly slapping the palms of her hands, said, “What is the matter?”
She roused herself, made an effort to lift her head, and let it sink again. The trouble that lay in the depths of her heart choked her; she experienced an irresistible need of confiding in some one, and she judged that the man who was talking to her was one of those men to whom a woman can tell her secret, one of those souls to whom she could pour out her shame without blushing. She began, in a broken voice, a confused, disconnected recital that Camille could scarcely follow. However, he finally understood; he felt himself divided between an immense pity for her despair, and a fierce lover’s joy that tightened his throat and well-nigh strangled him.
The belfry of Cormeilles had recovered its voice; two o’clock rang out on the air. Antoinette rose and exclaimed: “I was to meet him at the pretty little gate that you see from here! He will have the right to be angry if I keep him waiting.”
At once she hastened towards the balustered steps that led from the terrace to the orchard. M. Langis followed her, seeking to detain her. “You need not see him again,” said he. “I will meet him. Pray, charge me with your explanations.”
She repelled him and replied, in a voice of authority: “I wish to see him, no one but I can say to him what I have in my heart. I command you to remain here; I intend that he shall blame no one but me.” She added with a curl of the lips meant for a smile: “You must remember, I do not believe yet that I have been deceived; I will not believe it until I have read the lie in his eyes.”
She hastily descended into the orchard, and, during five minutes, her eye fixed on the gate, she waited for Samuel Brohl. Her impatience counted the seconds, and yet Mlle. Moriaz could have wished the gate would never open. There was near by an old apple-tree that she loved; in the old days she had more than once suspended her hammock from one of its arched and drooping branches. She leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old tree. It seemed to her that she was not alone; some one protected her.
At last the gate opened and admitted Samuel Brohl, who had a smile on his lips. His first words were: “And your umbrella! You have forgotten it?”
She replied: “Do you not see that there is no sunshine?” And she remained leaning against the apple-tree.
He uplifted his hand to show her the blue sky; he let it fall again. He looked at Antoinette, and he was afraid. He guessed immediately that she knew all. At once he grew audacious.
“I spent a dull day yesterday,” said he. “Mme. de Lorcy invited me to dine with a crazy woman; but the night made up for it. I saw Engadine in my dreams—the firs, the Alpine pines, the emerald lakes, and a red hood.”