MME. Chambannes was waiting for him in the smoking-room, which had been arranged as a study.

In the center stood a large table, on a dark red carpet. There was an English crystal inkstand, bought for the occasion, Oriental cigarettes in a cup, a note-book bound in morocco and gold, and on each side of the table, an Empire armchair. To the Iris perfume emanating from ZozÉ was added an aroma of incense which pervaded the house, even to the hall.

Mme. Chambannes took M. Rainda hat and gloves, which he hesitated to deposit on the table.

They sat facing each other and the lesson began.

First of all, M. Raindal dictated a list of books which ZozÉ was to get.

Mme. Chambannes wrote rapidly, her lips moving a little. The pale rose of the electric lamp left the top of her hair in the shadow; but her clear-cut oval face remained in full light. Powder, spread with a light hand, covered her flesh so artfully that it seemed a natural velvet. Rays of light skimmed it without being reflected, and they touched likewise the soft, thin silk of her afternoon dress. The shades were pale, its pattern indistinct, being covered with a quantity of creamy lace. The white tone of it gave to her face a revived brilliancy of early morning purity. She seemed hardly dressed at all under the ample folds of her robe and as fresh as if she had just emerged from her bath.

She looked up whenever M. Raindal paused. Her watching eyes spread an overflowing tenderness around the master. M. Raindal coughed to cover his discomfort; he brought his forearms and hanging hands closer to his frame and seemed anxious to withdraw further back.

When he had dictated his list, ZozÉ asked him:

“And now?”

“Now, well, you will have to work, dear lady, and to learn to work alone! In spite of my eagerness to help you, you must realize that there will be weeks when....”

ZozÉ interrupted him. “I know, my dear master, I know.... They will not be lessons; ... we shall have our little talks ... friendly advice, when you can, when you are free....”

M. Raindal nodded his approval and drew towards himself one of the large volumes of Eber work on Egypt. He turned the pages and pushed the volume towards ZozÉ whenever he found an illustration or when he had to give an explanation. She bent over the table. The soft curls of her hair sometimes lightly tickled the forehead of M. Raindal. Quickly, he would fall back; and his anxiety amused her. She soon felt ashamed of herself for teasing him and said abruptly:

“Oh! we are very uncomfortable!... Will you allow me, dear master, to sit beside you?”

“Of course, dear lady!”

Nevertheless, they had barely taken up again the study of the engravings when M. Raindal deplored his ready willingness.

Zoz perfume, now so close to him, made him feel dizzy with its effluvia. Whenever she bent down, the light texture of her floating dress released a stronger whiff. But it was no longer iris or violet; it was a sweet, warm odor like the scent of fruit, the live perfume of her flesh, married to that of the scent. And M. Rainda comments became muddled.

Of course, he knew that a chosen few possessed the gift of radiating a delightful fragrance through their epidermis. Several personages of antiquity were thus favored; there was, notably Cleopatra, according to a papyrus found at Boulaq, and quoted by M. Raindal in his book; Plutarch was no less precise concerning the skin of Alexander.

But, in recollecting these facts, and other similar instances, the master was but increasing the confusion of his ideas. He vainly groped for words. Each time that the perfume struck his nostrils, he pinched them shyly, as if they were threatened with a poisonous gas. He often remained speechless before a picture, unable to complete his interpretation of it. Absentmindedly, he dreamed of Alexande skin and the flesh of Cleopatra; he wished also that ZozÉ would not keep her gilded armchair so close to his.

“One word, may I say one tiny word, if I am not disturbing you?”

Mme. de Marquesse it was who made this appeal; she merely slipped between the hanging portiÈres her profile with its powerful chin and the one white-gloved hand that held the curtain back.

“Come in, dear!” Mme. Chambannes said.

The two women kissed each other. M. Raindal saluted Mme. de Marquesse, and casually noticed that she wore a blue coat and skirt, black-braided and with a girth about the hips like a riding-habit. They begged his permission and retired to the next drawing-room. M. Raindal sighed deeply. Now that he found himself in calm solitude he suddenly lost all his anxiety. His impression was one of hidden pleasure, danger overcome and flattering mystery. In this new mood, he would even have thought it not unpleasant if his colleagues of the Academy had seen him in this luxurious room and near two such charming persons who treated him with so much respect. He was standing before the mirror, smoothing down his beard, his lower jaw brought forward, when the ladies returned.

Mme. de Marquesse wished to go. ZozÉ gracefully stood in her way, her arms stretched across the portiÈre in a Sarah Bernhardt attitude.

“No! not yet!... Am I not right, dear master? Mme. de Marquesse cannot go like this?”

M. Raindal agreed silently. ZozÉ rang the bell and had port wine and biscuits brought in. The latter had a taste of vanilla for which M. Raindal showed great partiality. Mme. Chambannes wrote down for him the address of the confectioner who sold them. Mme. de Marquesse pretended to know a better brand. Each of the two praised her own dealer. The port wine had enlivened them—and, laughingly, forefingers stretched out, they taxed each other with appalling cases of gourmandise. They called upon the master to act as referee but he gallantly declined. The argument made him laugh—and also the port wine, for he had drunk two glasses in quick succession, and his temples were warming up.

“Well, we are forgetting our work!” ZozÉ exclaimed suddenly.

Before M. Raindal had time to word a reply, the curtain was once more drawn aside. A bald, corpulent ecclesiastic, who seemed to be in his fifties and wore a broad smile under his broad spectacles, advanced slowly into the room.

“Ah! it is you, my dear abbÉ!” ZozÉ exclaimed in a tone which showed so much sincere surprise that it was hard to guess whether the pries visit had been planned beforehand or brought about by mere hazard.

She introduced the men to each other:

“M. bbÉ Touronde, director of the Villedouillet orphanage, our neighbor in the country and one of our best friends ... M. Raindal....”

The master bowed with the ceremonious affectation he always showed in order to dissimulate his aversion towards those of the cloth.

Respectfully, the abbÉ asked, with a slight Southern accent:

“M. Raindal, the author of the Life of Cleopatra?”

“Quite so!” ZozÉ confirmed.

The abbÉ Touronde congratulated him profusely. He was not acquainted with the book itself, but had read enough accounts of it in the newspapers, to speak of it freely. He praised the master upon some particular chapters. M. Raindal thanked him with modest gestures of his hand as if he were fending off the compliments.

But the abbÉ went on, in a slightly droning voice. The book appealed to him all the more because he was no stranger to its subject matter. He had once studied Egyptian history thoroughly for a brochure he was preparing concerning the sect of the United Coptic Church. He had, moreover, published in the Annals of Christian Archeology, two articles dealing with the Hagiographs of the Thebaid. M. Raindal confessed he had not read them; and the abbÉ volunteered “if it were not too indiscreet” to send the issues of the periodical that contained them.

His head was oval yet chubby, all flesh, as it were, but for a crown of brown hair around his baldness. M. Raindal thought he had a good-natured smile. Gradually the master thawed out. He imparted to the abbÉ some picturesque details concerning the Thebaid which, from professional instinct, he had explored. The priest listened studiously, showed him deference and solemnly nodded from the back of his head. ZozÉ took advantage of a pause to ask:

“You will stay for dinner, M. bbÉ?”

“Well, yes, madame,” he replied without hesitation, his round cheeks distended in a cordial smile. “Yes, surely, if you will have me!”

“And you, dear master?” ZozÉ pursued. “Will you join the party?”

“Oh, it is impossible, dear lady,” M. Raindal sighed. “I am expected.... Believe me, I am very sorry....”

He ceased abruptly as Chambannes entered, wearily caressing his thick hinge-like mustache. Everyone stood up. He shook hands with M. Raindal and asked, patting Zoz neck, as one might do to a school-girl:

“Well, how did the lesson go, my dear sir?... Are you satisfied with your pupil?”

“Very much gratified, monsieur ... an excellent beginning.”

“Oh, we have not accomplished very much!” ZozÉ said. “But you are coming next Thursday!... Thursday, I shall forbid the door.... I shall be at home to no one.... You promise to come, do you, dear master?”

M. Raindal promised. ZozÉ and Germaine went with him into the drawing-room and the latter left with him. They shook hands as they parted, Mme. de Marquesse pulling his arm so sharply that he felt a cramp in the shoulder. He looked at his watch under a lamp-post. It was a quarter to seven.

“Sapristi!” he murmured, horrified.

And once more he hailed a cab.

The boldness of fear moved him to anticipate irony or unwelcome queries by an affectation of jovial talkativeness.

In a light vein, he told of his visit as if it had been a sÉance at the Institute or a lecture at the CollÈge de France. He multiplied the details, described the dresses and even gave an imitation of the abb southern accent.

ThÉrÈse affected to be interested and replied with good humor; she seemed to have forgotten the mornin quarrel.

Mme. Raindal was silent. Why should she protest? Why should she wish to dissuade her husband from this fatal intercourse with people devoid of religion? Did she not know that he was irrevocably damned, marked beforehand, because of his own atheism, for eternal torments? She remembered, moreover, the maste anger at the occasion of the Chambannes’ dinner party: it was still alive in her mind and closed her mouth with wise caution.

She only allowed herself a frown when M. Raindal gave a parody of the abbÉ; her pained expression made ThÉrÈse laugh so much that her father began to have his suspicions concerning her good-natured remarks.

This gayety of hers, this sweetness—were they truly frank? Was not ThÉrÈse laughing at him? M. Raindal examined her furtively; then, waxing cautious, brusquely cut short his narrative.

He was more reserved the next Thursday. He barely mentioned his visit to the rue de Prony more than to transmit Zoz compliments to the ladies; and the following Thursday, he said nothing at all.

On the fourth Thursday, towards half past six, a telegram-card from M. Raindal was received in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. He asked his family not to expect him, as he was detained by the gracious entreaties of Mme. Chambannes. Under his signature, ZozÉ had written in her large handwriting: Approved.

To be quite frank, when M. Raindal had left home that day, he was not altogether unaware that he would not return for dinner, since he had, on his last visit, almost promised to be the guest of his pupil for the following Thursday. Nevertheless, he had done his best beforehand to consider this escapade as if it were to be an impromptu, which he had no cause to expect.

It was ThÉrÈse who opened the message. She read it, shrugged her shoulders and threw it into the fire.

“What is it?” Mme. Raindal asked, coming in at that moment.

ThÉrÈse replied sarcastically.

“A telegram from father who is staying over there to dinner!”

Over there! At these words the two women instinctively exchanged glances. Then, at once, seeing her mothe alarmed expression, ThÉrÈse bent down over her notes. What was the use of saying more? They had never had any possible communion of the spirit; they had never formed against M. Raindal one of those little jocular alliances of the kind that amused the master and his daughter at the expense of Mme. Raindal! Bah! she must needs perforce resign herself to a solitary enjoyment—alone as usual, alone as she was everywhere—of the humorous side of this adventure!

“So, he is dining there?” the old lady repeated disconsolately.

“Yes, mother; as I told you!” ThÉrÈse replied impatiently.

“And you think he will go there every Thursday?”

“I do know.”

In the same vexed tone, Mme. Raindal went on:

“Oh! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!... I do hope these Chambannes will bring him into no danger!... Tell me, you ... do you think you could say something to him?...

“Say what to him?”

“Tell him ... tell him ... to take care, for instance, not to entangle himself too deeply.... Dear, you know better than I do how to speak to him.... You are ... you are better friends!”

With this veiled reproach the old lady complained unwittingly of her isolation, of her life-long relegation with her God, and her fears moved the heart of ThÉrÈse.

“Listen!” she said more affectionately.... “Listen to me, mother! I assure you that there is as yet no danger.... Therefore, do worry before there is any need to.... And if yol believe me, let us meet father with pleasant faces; we must tease him.... I know him; we would only succeed in pushing him still deeper into the intimacy of those people.”

“And later?...”

“Later?... we shall see. We shall discuss it together and find out what is best under the circumstances.”

“Then you are willing that I should talk with you now and then about....”

She hesitated.

“Well ... of this ... of this affair?”

ThÉrÈse rose to kiss her mother and held her tightly.

“Of course, dear mother!... You are so funny!... Why not?”

A tear rolled down the cheek of Mme. Raindal.

“I do know.... You have such a wicked air, you and your father ... sometimes, each at your desk, with never a word for me when I come in.... Upon my word I am afraid of you both!”

And she left, taking short, weary steps, to warn Brigitte in time.

At the same time, Mme. Chambannes, to please M. Raindal, was giving him the names of her guests.

“I assure you, dear master; it will be absolutely among ourselves.... My Uncle and Aunt Panhias, our friend, young M. de Meuze, and perhaps the abbÉ Touronde....”

She had hardly said his name when the latter entered the smoking-room.

He evinced great pleasure at meeting M. Raindal. Behind his spectacles, his eyes shone with joy. ZozÉ started them in conversation and ran out to dress.

“Yes,” M. Raindal said politely, “your articles seemed to me excellent, well thought out, replete with learning.... I am surprised—should I admit it?—that with this obvious gift for science, you have not made a, what shall I say? a more voluminous, more considerable literary output....”

“Oh, dear master, you are too indulgent, too ... too kind!...” the abbÉ stammered, his voice quivering with satisfaction.

He then justified himself eloquently for his lack of literary production. Could anyone rightly charge him with being lazy? No, his sterility was due to other causes. First of all, there was the orphanage which required his assiduous, daily care, care of all sorts, financial as well as moral, literary as much as administrative. Then, there were his enemies, his numberless enemies who, had he published more works, would not have failed to discover in that fact a new motive for calumny, as they found some in every act of his, even the most virtuous, even the most innocent!

For there was no doubt about it, the abbÉ was, alas, the most calumniated priest of Seine-et-Oise. All the parties hated him! They all rivaled in ill-using him, in bringing him into discredit. Under the pretext that he was sought for at the neighboring chÂteaux—that of Mme. Chambannes, for instance, the ChÂteau des Frettes—the radicals of the region accused him before the prefect of carrying on a reactionary propaganda. On the other hand, anonymous denunciations poured in at the bisho palace, and they bore the clerical hall-mark. They asserted that the abbÉ Touronde compromised daily—here the abb voice was lowered and became confidential—the supereminent dignity of his cloth in worldly frivolity and association with heretics.

“Heretics!” the priest repeated with indignation. “Hah! can I pick and choose? Can I ask the donors for their regular baptism certificate? Should I decline the money of the Israelites who help me bring up my children?... Poor little things! Were it not for them, Heaven knows that the world, mundane frivolities, would not see much of me....”

He paused suddenly, as if he had heard the voice of his own conscience:

“Yes, yes, Bastien Touronde, you would still go there, because you enjoy good dinners, the sight of pretty women, luxury and comfort, and also because in the midst of this society, which knows little of dogmas, you are aware that your presence among the temptations causes much less scandal than it would elsewhere....”

And the abb lips whispered softly, as they did on his visits to the bishop, when Monseigneur blamed him for his worldly behavior:

“Non culpabiliter! non culpabiliter!”

“I beg your pardon?” said M. Raindal, who had listened only with half an ear to these long complaints.

The abbÉ Touronde started.

“I was thinking of these bad men, dear master. In my own mind I was abusing them.... You know, we of the South, we are warm-blooded and our tongue is not always sufficiently Christian!...”

The return of Mme. Chambannes, followed by her Uncle and Aunt Panhias, brought the dialogue to an end. The introductions were made. Panhias was in evening clothes with a black tie. His head hung down, like that of a thinker, but the expression was that of a gray-headed bookkeeper. His gait, the way he stood and the folds of his bearded face showed the fatigue of one of those office clerks to whom money has come too late. Mme. Panhias, on the other hand, seemed optimistic and jovial. She wore a brown silk dress tightly stretched around her ample shape. She rolled her r’s more than Mme. Chambannes did, and only a connoisseur could have perceived the Oriental in her, through her semi-Spanish, semi-South-American accent.

A few minutes later Gerald and, behind him, George Chambannes entered the smoking-room. Both were in evening dress. Instinctively M. Raindal lowered his eyes to examine his own frock coat. The butler announced that Madame was served and the party went into the dining-room.

The dinner was cordial and merry. M. Raindal felt no longer the shyness and the self-consciousness of an unwelcome stranger which had made him stiff at first. From so much intercourse with the Chambannes, he had become familiar with the names of their relations, the ways of the house and the tastes of the guests. In consequence, there were very few conversations in which he now hesitated to take his share owing to discretion, fear of a faux-pas or ignorance of the subject. Nothing seemed to trouble him any more. The ogling and the perfume of Mme. Chambannes now proved to be nothing more than stimulants to his ready tongue. They addressed each other as comrades, with a slight touch of fatherly superiority on the part of M. Raindal and of willing submissiveness on that of Mme. Chambannes. Even Chambannes made use, when he spoke to the master, of such turns of speech as were reserved as a rule for old friends. How different from the first dinner, when M. Raindal had felt himself so awkward and slow in recovering his heartiness. When Uncle Panhias admitted, absent-mindedly or under the effect of the wines, that Smyrna was his native town, the master almost congratulated him! Smyrna, the pearl of Tonia, was an exquisite city; its Greek name meant myrrh or incense, the perfume beloved of the gods. He never stopped until dessert was served, praising the city, supporting his theory with anecdotes and historical reminiscences. Aunt Panhias thanked him with enthusiastic replies that were to each of his sentences as the rolling of a drum.

When they went to the smoking-room, ZozÉ asked M. Rainda leave to light a cigarette. Then, by slow degrees, she went over to Gerald. He had let himself fall down on the divan and was sending spirals of smoke to the ceiling through his pouting lips. She sat beside him and asked coaxingly:

“What are you making a face for?”

He did not reply at first but, after a while, he grunted. “Is this kangaroo going to be here often?”

ZozÉ suppressed a smile.

“I do know! I hope you are not jealous.”

Gerald sneered contemptuously.

“Jealous!... Well.... No!... But he does bore me somewhat!... Your little friend is too fond of hearing himself talk.”

He rose and joined Chambannes, who was pouring himself a glass of brandy in front of the liqueur cabinet.

M. Raindal was unconsciously gratified when he saw their conversation ended. He was taking careful stock of “young M. de Meuze,” as ZozÉ had termed him; young Gerald was in the light of a lamp over which he bent in order to relight his cigar. Well, he was not so very young, in spite of appearances! The light now revealed at the corners of his eyes, of his lips and of his nostrils, through his still firm, youthful face, undefined lineaments, the colorless signs of forthcoming lines; and the veins were beginning to stand out on his temples.

This put M. Raindal in good humor, a feeling that confused him, since he had pretentions to generosity and magnanimity. Was it any reason, because M. de Meuze did not bestow admiring glances upon him, because the ma face had worn a constant expression of bored peevishness, to rejoice in these signs of the fatal decrepitude which advancing years....

Mme. Chambannes interrupted him in the midst of this return to fairness.

“Tell me, dear master!... What about our great visit to the Louvre?”

Alas, they must give up the idea of it for this week, as they had had to the previous weeks for a month, the “great” visit had been put off from week to week. Zoz every day was taken up. They finally decided to wait and settle upon the date at the next lesson. The conversation turned to less serious subjects. Aunt Panhias, as if she were relieved from a professional secret, let herself go on the subject of Smyrna. Fearing to fall asleep, M. Raindal withdrew at eleven. Downstairs, Mme. Chambannes asked him to invite the ladies on her behalf; would they join him and come to dinner on the forthcoming Thursday? He thanked her profusely but, once he was in the street, he could not repress the annoyance which this difficult mission caused him.

“What an idea!” he said to himself.... “Ah, yes, how easy that will be!”

He delayed risking the attack for three days; and as soon as he ventured to broach it, the two sharp refusals cut his words short. A rush of blood colored his brow. Of course they agreed; their joint refusal was only a concerted maneuver, a deceitful manifestation of disapproval.

He retorted scornfully:

“Very well! As you please!... Nevertheless, I have no intention of being a party to your fancies!... I give you warning; I shall go alone....”

Neither of them took up his challenge. He renewed it on the Thursday morning but obtained no further reply. His anger prompted him to leave the house at three, an hour earlier than usual. He had donned his evening clothes and, because his dress tie showed in the opening of his overcoat, a few gazers turned round to look at him. This increased his displeasure. He hurried on and arrived half-an-hour too soon. Conversely, and quite against her custom, Mme. Chambannes was half-an-hour late. He waited a whole hour in the smoking-room while daylight gradually faded. The servants had forgotten to turn on the lights. M. Raindal, daring neither to ring for them, nor to tamper with the electric lamps, remained in darkness. Bitter and violent ideas harassed him. Why were ThÉrÈse and Mme. Raindal embittered against the Chambannes? What was it they had on their minds against these people? What did they say of him when he was away? His fury was exasperated by the venomous sting of these queries.

“You here, in the dark, dear master!... Is it possible? I am late, am I not?... Do you forgive me?”

At the same time that he heard her affectionate voice, the room was flooded with light. Mme. Chambannes came in, muff in hand, her veil drawn up above her eyebrows. Her dainty little nose was pink at the tip, owing to the cold weather outside—or perhaps to the recent caresses. She renewed her apologies and threw on a chair her sable coat and her flowery hat, in which two hatpins vibrated an instant. Then she declared:

“Do you know, master.... I have an idea, a new combination.... Let me tell it quickly!... At five lock, we are forever being disturbed.... First it is one; then it is another who drops in and, between you and me, we do nothing of any value....”

M. Rainda face was serene once more; he nodded his benevolent approval.

“Well, then, here is my idea.... We could fix the hour of the lesson for six.... W work from six to seven ... and yo stay to dinner every Thursday.... Are you willing?”

M. Raindal had a rapid vision of ThÉrÈse, with the sarcastic smile, and the contemptuous tightening of her thin lips with which she would receive the news of this new arrangement. A longing came over him to defy her, to have his revenge on her and to reduce her silent irony with an audacious coup. He coughed, seemed to debate with himself, and finally said in a clear voice:

“Well, yes, that suits me.... It is agreed, dear Madame!”

But a remnant of caution made him add:

“Unless, of course, anything unforeseen occurs, unless there is some major impediment.”

Mme. Chambannes pouted reproachfully.

“Oh, dear master, it is very wrong to lay down conditions!... Are you not free, absolutely free?... Do you think that your little pupil would wish to encroach upon your occupations?”

“Your little pupil!”... How sweetly she had said that! M. Raindal was moved and apologized for himself; then he apologized equally for the ladies. ZozÉ did not seem offended by their defection. Had she not gained something that would console her? She was saving one hour for her dressmakers, for social calls and for Gerald, and this without losing the maste friendship. Only within herself, she thought:

“Oh! this Mlle. Raindal is getting on my nerves.”

From that day, M. Raindal was the guest of the Chambannes every Thursday.

Towards five lock he slipped on his evening clothes or a frock-coat, according to his inclination, since ZozÉ had left him free to dress as he pleased. He then hailed a cab and arrived in the rue de Prony at six. He stopped on his way usually at a florist and bought two or three large roses, some orchids, a very large bunch of violets or early lilac and offered them to Mme. Chambannes, whom he knew to be very fond of rare flowers. She thanked him chidingly, placed the flowers in a vase or, if they were short, kept them in her hand. Then the lesson would begin.

It was usually regulated according to certain points raised haphazard by Mme. Chambannes. The master replied with ingenuity, illustrating the past with facts from contemporary life, smoothing it over, thinning it down to the precise dimensions of his little pupi brains. ZozÉ smelled the flowers as she listened to him, or arched her eyebrows in order to accentuate her zeal.

Gradually, however, the teaching turned into a chat. Egypt, its chronology, mysteries and hieroglyphics were put aside. Mme. Chambannes confided to the master her amusements of the past few days or bits of social gossip, or she sketched for his benefit the character of some of her chief women friends. M. Raindal had no curious details to give of his own daily life and went back to the hard times of his youth. ZozÉ expressed much pity for him because he had greatly suffered from want and opened her tender eyes wide when he told her of certain privations he had undergone.

Sometimes—and this with a persistence which was only worn out one day to reappear the next—she begged M. Raindal to translate the footnotes of his Life of Cleopatra for her. Invariably the master refused, alleging that if he did, Mme. Chambannes would be the first to regret his compliance. Moreover, the greater number of the words belonged to what was termed low Latin and were untranslatable.

He felt strangely oppressed when, one night, after dinner, the abbÉ Touronde called him aside and informed him that Mme. Chambannes had almost succeeded in becoming acquainted with the meaning of the forbidden annotations.

“Would you believe it? The day before yesterday, she asked me if there existed a dictionary of low-Latin! I replied, ‘Yes, Madame; there is the Dictionary of Du Cange.’ ... ‘Well, my dear abbÉ, please be so kind as to buy it for me!’... I smelled an evil temptation and replied, with some readiness of wit, I may well say: ‘Alas, Madame! it is no longer on sale.... It has been out of print these forty years.’ Later she admitted that she wanted it to translate your notes. You will agree that but for me....”

M. Raindal warmly pressed the hand of the cautious ecclesiastic.

Apart from the abbÉ Touronde, and in accordance with the particular desire of the master, Mme. Chambannes invited only her near relatives on Thursdays, such as her Uncle and Aunt Panhias or the Marquis de Meuze, who had solicited the favor of being a guest at those select dinners.

Gerald was afraid of being bored and scarcely ever attended them. ZozÉ took pride in this constant abstention, taking it for a symptom of a jealousy she had never hoped to arouse.

Who could have foretold that these conversations, sprung from an idle caprice, a fortuitous inspiration, were to serve, one day, as reprisals against the perpetual coquetry of the young Count! Moreover, these were harmless reprisals and allowed Gerald, at the most, to take lessons from an old lady!... Is there no equality in love, and are not the rights of the one an exact replica of the rights of the other? ZozÉ, at least, firmly held to this view.

It made her more attached to M. Raindal. He was an ally, as it were, a show accomplice; when her friends asked her, in Geral presence, if her flirtation with her “old savant” still endured, she defended herself with malicious smiles, with a “how silly you are!” or a “leave me alone!” which revealed her joy at the coincidence. How M. Raldo must rage, how much more he must now love her!... Had not caution held her back, she would, at those moments, have kissed him for sheer gratefulness.

Again, the exclusive intimacy with which M. Raindal honored her brought her daily flattering comments. The rumor of it spread among her guests. People talked about it. They questioned Mme. Chambannes touching the maste habits, as if they had been those of a savage she had miraculously tamed. Many women thought this friendship a suspicious one, this craze for learning incomprehensible, this preference on the part of the master unaccountable, and they protested that “there must surely be something behind all this.” Others said of ZozÉ that she was mad, and disparaged M. Rainda personal appearance. The most faithful pleaded and recalled the irreproachable tenderness of the young woman for Gerald. But these arguments left Marquesse shrugging his shoulders and Herschstein humming a hunting air, with this much to add to their skepticism, that the master had twice already declined the pleasure of appearing at their tables. These stories were good enough for women! Facts were still facts. Let the Chambannes pride themselves upon monopolizing pÈre Raindal; nothing was more natural. But to come and tell them that the old man came there for the sake of science, for the love of art, oh! dear no, not to Herschstein or Marquesse! This much, and no more, did they concede to the defense, that they did not specify what the nature of the flirtation was, or its limits.... And yet, one does see such strange things in life! It seemed therefore best to these equitable men to remain on the ground of suppositions and to render no decision.

ZozÉ was made acquainted with this gossip by Mme. Pums. She replied proudly that she was “above such horrid things.” She now neglected the abbÉ Touronde, who was still the cherished hostage of her set, every member of which vied with the others in pampering him, as if his black robe had been a flag of guaranty and safeguard. She bestowed upon M. Raindal all the delicate attentions and the kind deference she had once shown to the conciliating ecclesiastic. She presented the master, on his birthday, with a gorgeous scarf-pin made up of a turquoise scarab mounted in pale gold. She had thought of this gift as much to please him as in the hope of getting him to give up the narrow black ribbands which he wore as a rule. Her attempt met with success. On the following Thursday M. Raindal wore a wide, dark blue satin scarf enriched in its center with the pale blue turquoise pin.

“You are wearing a very pretty tie!” ZozÉ remarked during the dinner.

M. Rainda features assumed a modest expression.

“Do you think so?...” he asked.

However, he cared nothing for fashion. He dressed according to the ideas of his tailor—a little tailor of the rue de Vaugirard, whose client he had been for thirty years.

“You are wrong!” ZozÉ remarked. “Good tailors are not more expensive than bad ones.... Why do you go to Blacks, my husban tailor?”

Chambannes agreed with her. M. Panhias joined them; the master gave in and made an appointment with George to go and order a suit from Blacks.

The tailor was obsequious at first, when Chambannes mentioned the name of M. Raindal of the Institute; he became peremptory and sharp when it came to selecting the material. The master was dashed and dared not oppose him. It was even worse when it came to trying on. M. Raindal did not want any silk facings to his frock-coat. Blacks wished to force him. M. Raindal lost his patience and rebelled. He did not want any facings and he was not going to have any. Blacks bowed with a hypocritical grimace, admitting that every client had his own taste. When, however, the suit was delivered and M. Raindal opened the folds of his new frock-coat, the silk facings struck his eyes with their shining triangles.

The master softly complained of this impudence to his friends the Chambannes. Both laughed exceedingly and said that Blacks was right. M. Raindal was softened by their gayety and fell in with their opinion. Henceforth, ZozÉ did not hesitate to advise him in the matter of his wardrobe. He obeyed readily, owing alike to his desire to please her and to a craving for refinement which secretly tormented him.

But these accumulated expenses had made a hole in his budget. He increased his deficit every week with such things as cabs, flowers and gloves, and, of course, with such heavier expenses as the order to Blacks. The AcadÉmie had finally given him the Vital-Gerbert prize, and this helped him out just on time. He invested only 8000 francs of the 10,000 he received and reserved the balance for unforeseen expenses and pocket money.

At any other time of his life, he would have blushed thus to frustrate his family. But duty is a burden that is best borne by all the parties together. And M. Raindal certainly found a pretext for his egotism in the attitude of his family.

It was not that a state of warfare had been openly declared. Far from it; faithful to their compact, the two women multiplied their concessions in order to preserve the old harmony. Thanks to their efforts, the household had never seemed freer from discord. They vied with each other as to who should most skillfully avoid any allusion, contradiction or motive for disagreement. The master, on his side, fearful of their sarcastic comments, preserved silence concerning his weekly dinners. It had come to this, that the name of Chambannes was never uttered, unless it became necessary; even then, the women wrapped up its syllables with a light intonation, as one rolls explosives in cotton-wool. Whenever M. Raindal formulated unexpected theories upon the public usefulness of luxury, the dangers of puritanism, or the social advantages of pleasure, ThÉrÈse discussed them with him without the slightest bitterness, as if they were matters of economics which bore no relation whatsoever to their daily life. As an additional precaution, she had persuaded Cyprien to renounce his usual jesting comments concerning Mme. RhÂm-BÂhan. The younger Raindal now kept his sallies for his usual audience of one, Schleifmann.

Nevertheless, in spite of this outward appearance of calm and good entente, the master had no longer the feeling of peace and confidence he had felt in his home. He guessed every action and word of his to be spied upon, jeered at and censured either aloud or in low voices. He could hardly contain his anger against this secret, impalpable, yet ever awake, hostility which continuously dogged his movements.

While dreading its outbreak, there were nevertheless days when he could not help wishing for an open dispute, a straightforward attack, a solid and clear-cut family altercation, when each one could cry out his grievances and defend his own cause.

Let them attack him; let them but ask a question and he would know how to exonerate himself! What harm was he doing, anyhow? Was he running from salon to salon, as did so many of his colleagues? Had he taken advantage of his triumph to break into the little literary Bastilles which were the final goal of so many paltry ambitions? Had he not, on the contrary, declined, one after another, all the invitations given him, by Mme. Pums, by Mme. Herschstein, by Mme. de Marquesse, even by ladies of higher social status whom he could name if called upon? Had he not a score of times discreetly urged his wife and daughter to pay the call they owed the Chambannes? Was he not ready to take them to the rue de Prony as often as they could wish? Did he manifest any spite, as so many others might do, for all the deceptions and for the bitterness which Mme. Rainda uneasy religiosity had scattered between them? Did he play the part of a bad husband, a bad father, a frivolous and dissipated man?... Well then, what was it they reproached him with? Why was he compelled to suspect his own family as he had to suspect his own sworn enemies? There was that wretch of a Saulvard, for instance, who carried the rancor of his defeat to the point of declining three successive invitations of Mme. Chambannes.... The entanglement of his worries, added to the silence he imposed upon himself, made him feel disgusted with his own house, his home and everything that he had until then considered as happiness and quiet.

He proved his own innocence to himself so often that doubts came to him at times. He asked himself whether his friendship with young Mme. Chambannes was not such as might cause him some prejudice in the scientific world, whether it might not be more seemly for him to allow more time to pass between his visits, and whether his regularity might not be affording the evil-minded an opening. At once a rebellion which he attributed to pride moved him to smile at such scruples. He derived from his reflections a new energy for the indulgence of his inclination. Throughout the week, he lost no opportunity, whether at the dining-table or elsewhere, to flay the ridicule of pedantry, the hypocrisy of austere people, a whole mass of foibles and of anonymous characters, upon whom, with no less good grounds, Mme. Raindal, ThÉrÈse and Uncle Cyprien might have bestowed their own names as well. Thus came the Thursday, and he made his exit with a provocative, almost bellicose, banging of all the doors in succession.

He reached the Chambannes’ house, from the very hall a warm smell of incense caressed him as a first greeting of welcome, and his resentment vanished. Here everyone smiled at him and showed an eagerness to please him, from Firmin, the butler, who took his overcoat and affectionately inquired about his health, to the abbÉ Touronde, to Aunt Panhias and even the indolent Chambannes himself! Upstairs, ZozÉ came out to meet him and gave him her hand to kiss. And, during four good hours, M. Raindal forgot his vexations, his family troubles, his little pangs of the past week. Only when it was time for him to go did he remember them. When eleven lock came, he had an impression of melancholy, of an ended happiness, like a boy who must return to college.

ZozÉ always accompanied him to the hall, saw to it that he covered himself well, told him not to catch cold. As the end of the winter was in sight, she murmured to her husband, once the door was closed:

“Poor old fellow!... All the same, it is a long way to go for a man of his age.... I am glad that spring is coming back.”

Whenever the weather permitted it, M. Raindal returned on foot, for the sake of the exercise. The road seemed a long one to him but, as he neared the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he slackened his pace and his steps became less regular. It was as if he wished to delay the moment of regaining his home.

At last he climbed the waxed steps of his staircase; they slipped from under his feet. The walls were as cold as a cellar; they were painted to imitate marble, and the candle threw a gigantic shadow on them. M. Raindal opened the door. Smells of cooking and washing soda caught him at the throat. He crossed the little apartment on tiptoe; the silk lining of his frock-coat rustled against his legs as a last echo of the elegances he had left behind. The mediocrity of his lodging was all the more apparent to him. What poor furniture, what a lack of comfort after the luxury, the ease and all the delicate things which abounded in the rue de Prony! M. Raindal gave a deep sigh and slipped between the sheets, near Mme. Raindal, who snored imperturbably in a twin bed.... Often he left the light on and lay there dreaming, retracing the evening; and his nostalgia vanished as his memories revived.

It returned the next day at the sight of ThÉrÈse in her coarse morning garb, that common, dark dressing-gown which was so different from the soft gowns of Mme. Chambannes.

Ah! M. Raindal understood the severity of the girl towards his little pupil. Envy, alas; of course, it was envy! A jealousy that was incapable of discerning anything in Mme. Chambannes beyond the gaps in her learning and her intellectual poverty—as if erudition meant everything in a woman; as if beauty, elegance, the art of attracting did not also rank among the precious gifts and the powerful faculties. His discovery exalted him to such a point that he felt himself caught in a sudden rush of compassion, instead of mentally reproaching her for the physical disgrace she had suffered which had for some time unwittingly ill-disposed him toward her. He ran to ThÉrÈse and ardently kissed her forehead. She kissed him in return on the cheek, in an attempt at tenderness. But her body was bent back and gave the instant lie to the smile on her lips. There had passed between them an intangible sorcery which prevented their hearts from opening as of old, forbade confidence and precluded the solidarity which had united them as co-workers for so many years....

They went back to their work, resenting their powerlessness to commune with one another again, mutually embittered by the failure of their attempt, cursing each other inwardly for the wrongs which each laid at the othe door. The week started anew in this state of apparent harmony that was heavy with discord.

One night in early March, as mild as a summer night, M. Raindal, returning home from the Chambannes’, saw a light in his daughte room.

This made him anxious, for the hour was late; he knocked at the door and entered almost at the same time.

ThÉrÈse was sobbing in her pillow; she had not undressed but lay on her uncovered bed.

M. Raindal rushed forward to help her up, but she did not wait for him. She looked up and rubbed the tears from her eyes. He inquired, still holding her in his arms:

“What is the matter, dearest?... Were you crying? What is the trouble?”

She released herself with a brusque movement of her shoulders:

“Nothing, father! Thanks.... It is nothing.... Leave me alone, please!”

“Then you do not need me?” M. Raindal murmured in surprise.

“No, no, I assure you.... Go away.... I tell you it is nothing at all.... Just my nerves!...”

He dared not insist, for fear of exasperating her; he retired and shut the door behind him with particular care, as if he had left a sick-room.

Nerves!... Hm!... A woma excuse, a veil of sickness with which they cover up the secret of their anger. What could be the matter with ThÉrÈse? What was it that caused her such great pain? Remorse insinuated: “If it were you! Suppose your Thursday visits, your obstinacy were the cause of it!” M. Raindal resolved to probe this to the very bottom, to question ThÉrÈse the very next morning.

But the next day passed without his following up his intention. She was not thinking about it any more. Why should he torment the poor child with questions? Again, it was possible that she had told him the truth. It might have been nerves, after all.