“I was sure of it,” said the lady already comforted. “If you would deign to enter the shop, Monsieur.”
Fortinbras followed her, and for a while lost his envy of Martin and Corinna in patient and ironic consideration of the naughtiness of Monsieur Gaussart.
This first stage out of Paris was the only time when the wanderers braved the midday heat of the golden August. They took counsel together in an earwiggy arbour outside Versailles, where they quenched their thirst with cider. They were in no hurry to reach their destination. A few hours in the early morning—they could start at six—and an hour or two in the cool of the evening would suffice. The remainder of the day would be devoted to repose. . . .
“And churches and cathedrals,” added Martin.
“You have a frolicsome idea of a holiday jaunt,” said Corinna.
“What else can we do?”
“Eat lotus,” said Corinna. “Forget that there ever were such places as Paris or London or Wendlebury.”
“I don’t think Chartres would remind you of one of them,” said Martin. “I’ve dreamed of Chartres ever since I read ‘La Cathédrale’ by Huysmans.”
“You’re what they call an earnest soul,” remarked Corinna. “All the way here I’ve never stopped wondering why I’ve come with you on this insane pilgrimage to nowhere.”
“I’ve been wondering the same myself,” said Martin.