THE cab passed slowly through the parc Monceau, and proceeded faster through the Champs ElysÉes towards the boulevard Saint Germain.

Mme. Chambannes sat huddled up in the left-hand corner; her feet pressed on the hot water bottle, scorching her soles on the white metal; rocked by the motions of the carriage, she all but closed her eyes.

She opened them for an instant on entering the boulevard Saint Germain, looking out to peep at the rue de Bourgogne where Gerald lived with the Marquis; then she dozed off again.

She preferred not to think, to let herself remain benumbed with sleepiness. Yet, when the cab left the rue de Rennes and turned into the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, Mme. Chambannes instinctively straightened herself up, as does a traveler at a change of scenery.

The street was deserted and lined with long, austere buildings. Were they colleges, seminaries or convents? Mme. Chambannes did not know. Most of them had black iron bars that stretched their dark stems against daylight and the noise from outside. Here and there she noticed a few houses that had none and were not quite so high as the others. Beyond them, the bare heads of the trees spread their leafless branches. She could guess at courtyards behind, immense gardens and discreet paths where people walked and meditated.

In her own district of the plaine Monceau, there were streets that Mme. Chambannes had thought no less mournful. On some afternoons, even during the week, they gave an impression of Sunday calm and the houses seemed empty of people, as if all had gone to the center, to the gayety of the boulevards. Yet here the aspect was a different one; the quietness was less idle and seemed to vibrate with thought. She felt that there were crowds behind these strong walls, all busy with pious or cherished occupations: a silent activity, zeal, ambition and faith, and disciplined passions. At moments a hidden bell sent a deep note into the air.

Without much understanding, Mme. Chambannes felt a little shiver of surprise. She imagined a multitude of monks and nuns dwelling in these buildings. They knelt down and prayed, in long black or gray rows. The dark sanctuaries softened their silhouettes and the smoke of incense twisted its curls above their heads. She had a sudden curiosity to be among them, to learn their prayers and share their ecstasies. Especially she wished to go in and see.

Her driver had to knock at the window to warn her that they had reached the house. The concierge was an old woman with catarrh. She told her where M. Rainda apartment was: at the end of the path, on the fifth floor, and the door on the right.

She paused a little while before pulling the cord of the bell. She wanted to look about her. Opposite stood the wall of the next house on the other side of the path. But to her right, she saw gardens, uneven houses, a whole panorama of strange roofs, separated by streets or a purple mixture of trees. A perfume of pot-au-feu escaped from the door of the Raindal family.

She rang at last and was ushered into the drawing-room by Brigitte.

Mme. Raindal, dressed in black silk, was chatting with two elderly ladies whose dresses showed no care for the fashions of the day. She hesitated on seeing ZozÉ, then recognized her and went to her.

“I came to inquire about the young patient,” Mme. Chambannes said, as she sat in the dark-red plush arm-chair which Mme. Raindal offered her.

“ThÉrÈse! She is quite well again.... She is working with her father.... You shall see her very shortly.... How kind of you to....”

Mme. Chambannes thanked her with a smile.

Mme. Boudois, one of the two visitors, the wife of a professor at the Sorbonne, exclaimed:

“Poor child!... Has she been ill?”

“Not much, thank Heaven!” Mme. Raindal replied. “A mere indisposition while she was dancing at the Saulvards last night....”

The other lady, Mme. Lebercq, the wife of the famous mathematician, inquired:

“Dizziness, was it?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mme. Raindal replied.

Mme. Boudois confirmed these presumptions. There was her husband, for instance; God knew he had his sea-legs and sailed up and down the seas every summer, at Langrune, in a fisherma boat. Well, her husband never could waltz; he felt giddy at once.

On the other hand, Mme. Lebercq was no sailor but had been able to bear dancing without inconvenience when she was young.

A silence followed and Mme. Chambannes began again:

“The party was charming, was it not?”

“Delightful!” Mme. Raindal admitted.

Mme. Boudois and Mme. Lebercq asked for details, and received them. But at the turning point of a sentence, the conversation was directed toward another subject. Mme. Boudois spoke of the forthcoming festivities of Advent. She advised Mme. Raindal to attend some of the Benedictions of the Host at Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, where the NoËl O would be sung with rare brilliancy. Mme. Raindal rather preferred those of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. The discussion grew quite heated. Mme. Lebercq, who was not devout, remained silent. Mme. Chambannes, ill at ease at this talk of things that were mysteries to her, examined the pattern of the red and black carpet around which the arm-chairs were disposed.

She took advantage of a pause for breath and asked:

“Would it be indiscreet to disturb the master and your daughter?... I would be so glad to say how do you do to them!”

“Of course not! Quite the contrary.... They will be delighted.”

She knocked at a side door.

“What is it?” the voice of M. Raindal grunted.

“A visitor!”

She made way for the younger woman. ThÉrÈse lifted her head at the sound and rose from the table at the same time as her father.

“It is Mme. Chambannes who comes to inquire after you, dear,” Mme. Raindal explained.

ThÉrÈse, whose lips were already pursed with vexation, attempted a smile.

“Oh, you are too kind, dear Madame.... It was not worth it....”

M. Raindal joined his grateful protestations to those of his daughter. Mme. Raindal excused herself and returned to her visitors. As on the previous day, at the ball, when he had been introduced to ZozÉ, the master stood still, embarrassed. At length he said:

“Wo you sit down, please?”

She took a chair and said:

“How gay your study is!... How light!”

“Oh, we do lack daylight here!” M. Raindal replied. “The room has quite a good light.”

Mme. Chambannes continued:

“You were working?... I interrupted you....”

“With the most agreeable of possible surprises,” M. Raindal answered, with a wave of his hand.

The conversation dragged on. ThÉrÈse wore a persistent frown, said little and was absorbed in drawing lines on a sheet of paper. Mme. Chambannes’ visit roused her indignation. Why had that woman come? What more did she want? What right had she to disturb them with her prattling, her childish queries and her very presence which brought back the memories of the previous evening, the shame of that accursed party?

“Your windows look out on gardens, do they not?” Mme. Chambannes asked.

“Upon gardens and our whole Paris! We have a marvelous view from here!” he replied.

She walked with him to the window. At last the sun had burst through the clouds and scattered the fog. Below them was all M. Rainda Paris, the whole of the religious, studious and simple-minded Paris, stretching out its stiff endless stone buildings in a milky light. The tops of certain edifices rose high above the level of the others. To the right was the square tower of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, then the immense dome of the Pantheon, then a thin, fine point—the spire of the Sorbonne. Further to the left rose the shining sphere of the cupola of the Missions and at the end a truncated pyramid upon which floated a tiny, discolored flag: the palace of the Louvre. Between these, the houses sketched in the air the irregular lines of their roofs. The thin-hooded chimneys bristled in compact ranks, like reversed bayonets. At the back was a deep hollow space, indicating avenues and a park; it was the Luxemburg, but it could not be seen.

M. Raindal complacently commented upon this panorama. Mme. Chambannes gushed over it all, finding everything either charming or pretty. When he had finished, he pointed out the garden next to their house.

“It is the garden of the Visitandine Sisters of Notre-Dame-du-Saint-Rosaire.... See, there are two of our neighbors out for a walk!”

Mme. Chambannes bent forward to look at them. They walked one behind the other around the enclosure of brown earth. They held chaplets in their hands that were red with cold, and let the beads slip one by one. Their bonnets were bent down and hid their faces. One of them, thin and light, seemed young; the other was stouter and appeared old. Both had the square, unshapely waist which the bands of their aprons mark on the corsetless flesh of nuns. Mme. Chambannes examined them in silence for a few seconds, but thought it wiser not to ask what it was these holy sisters were doing with their rosaries. She turned round and, perceiving a glass case set up against the wall, near the window, exclaimed.

“Oh, the pretty things! what charming little mummies!... They seem to be asleep standing up....”

She pointed out the middle shelf where peacock blue, pale green and white china statuettes stood in rows. All wore the Egyptian headdress that fell down on their shoulders like manes. Their eyes were black lines above squat noses which were in several cases worn out at the tip. There were inscriptions all down their bodies even to the feet, which were swollen like those of gouty people. Some had their arms crossed in front. Others showed only their hands as if they had bathing gowns on. The sand of the desert had stuck to many of them, leaving upon them the mark of its centuries-old atoms.

M. Raindal explained the use of those statues. They had been placed in the tombs in order to help the dead in their labors in the other life. He then gave Mme. Chambannes the names of the divinities on the shelf above: Hathor the cow-headed, jackal-headed Anubis, hawk-headed Horus, Osiris, the god of the netherworld, with his huge tiara; Thueris, a frightful idol with the head of a hippopotamus and a woma breast, who was, it was thought, consecrated to motherhood or to preserving people from ill-luck. The master spoke of them all tenderly and volubly as if he had imagined them and made them himself with his own hands. Well, had he not created them? Had he not given them life when he tore them one by one from the Nothingness of the sands or the depths of the tombs? The scarabs of colored stones were also, every one of them, his own discoveries. He had put a pin through them and laid them side by side on white grooves as one does with a collection of real insects. Near these scarabs there was a case in which had been thrown three heavy gold rings, their bezels engraved with hieroglyphics, which had doubtless been worn on the dry, yellow fingers of imperious Pharaohs.

“All these things are terribly old, are they not?” Mme. Chambannes asked.

“It depends,” M. Raindal replied. “On an average, they date back 3000, perhaps 4000 or 5000 years!”

“Really!... And if I went to Egypt, next year ... I could find some like these?...”

“It is possible ... if one digs deep enough.... The desert is chock full of them!”

“How interesting!” the young woman murmured dreamily.

Behind her, ThÉrÈse stamped the floor with impatience. She started when she heard Mme. Chambannes proceed:

“And now, my dear master, I have a small favor to ask of you.... Are you free in a fortnight, on December 12th?”

“Well, Madame!...” M. Raindal stammered, trying hard to guess, in spite of his poor eyesight, the meaning of the grimaces ThÉrÈse was making at him.

“Because, if you were free, you would do me great honor and give me much pleasure if you would dine with me at my house.”

M. Raindal bowed.

“Hm! Hm!... Certainly, Madame.... I can ask Mme. Raindal.... At least, I do not think she is engaged for that evening....”

He turned to his daughter.

“Is it not so, dear? Your mother has not, so far as I know....”

ThÉrÈse cut his sentence short with the brutal admission:

“No, father, we are free!”

She felt her hand tremble on the glass case where it lay. Anything, anything, just so she could get rid of that woman! So that she would go away, back to her tall coxcomb, that Gerald whose mistress she must surely be! Later they could get out of the engagement. Let her only go! Not to see her any more in the room, not to hear her voice any more, no longer to breathe in her perfume, like that of Gerald, heavy!

They returned to the drawing-room. Mme. Raindal, surprised, accepted at once. The whole family saw ZozÉ off at the door. Even ThÉrÈse followed them. When Mme. Chambannes reached the stairs and looked up for a last parting word, it was the gir challenging glance that met her last one.

“A peculiar look!” Mme. Chambannes thought in the cab that took her away. It was a look that held both admiration and a little envy, such as the poor give when they watch the beautiful women going into the opera.... Well, this little Raindal girl was strange!

Her cab passed the bridge of La Concorde and entered the Champs ÉlysÉes.

ZozÉ could not refrain from making eyes at the first well-dressed young man she passed. At last she was back in her own element, on her own soil, in her own district.

Once before, she had had a similar impression; it was when she had returned from abroad and saw, on crossing the frontier, the first French customs inspector. As she returned now to the right bank of the river, she found everything different from the place she had just left. Clothes, faces and gait—it was all different. The cold seemed less bitter, less cruel to her cheeks. Men walked down the avenue, comfortable, peaceful, covered with soft fur coats. Women passed in rapid victorias, their faces a smile in the midst of furs; children played and ran among the trees. Everywhere the pleasures of summer were carried on in spite of the hostile winter. Rich people met rich people, all well dressed, quite au courant of the latest thing, among connoisseurs, in their own sets. ZozÉ shut her eyes tight in an attempt to visualize again the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, so far away, in the provinces as it were, gray and flat as a stereopticon view....

Her mental comparisons were cut short when she heard the ÉlysÉe clock strike four. What! already! She would be late! What would Gerald say? Fortunately she was almost there. Yet it was not fast enough for ZozÉ who, with her feet propped up against the back seat of the cab, pushed the hot water can with her two feet, as if to help the horse along.

At length, the cab came to a stop in rue guesseau, before a quiet-looking house. Carelessly, she settled her fare, ran madly up one flight and entered the apartment, all out of breath. Gerald was there. He was dozing on the divan of the dressing room. His arms were folded around his head, making a dark setting for it. The obscurity of the corner where he lay further heightened his peaceful expression.

Mme. Chambannes contemplated him tenderly. Poor little Raldo! How beautiful he was in his sleep!

Emboldened, she whispered:

“Are you asleep? Are you asleep, darling?”

Without opening his eyes, Gerald replied:

“No, I am not asleep but I am affecting a deep sleep!...”

“Why?” ZozÉ asked smilingly.

“Because,” he replied in the same way, “you are late, Madame, and I detest that kind of joke.”

He rose to kiss her. She returned his caress with effusion and asked saucily:

“Guess where I have been!”

“I take orders from no one!” Gerald replied.

“Well, I have been to see pÈre Raindal!”

“The Kangaroo!”

Surprised, ZozÉ opened her eyes wide.

“The Kangaroo!”

“Why, of course!” Gerald said. “Did you notice the way he held his arms and his hands? A regular kangaroo! All he lacks is the pocket in front, and little ones inside.”

ZozÉ laughed. Then she gave him a humorous account of her visit, described the furniture, the carpet, the hangings; she told of the smelling pot-au-feu; she gave an imitation of Mme. Raindal, of Mme. Boudois and of Mme. Lebercq, all in the hope of amusing Gerald.

The young man had a certain amount of natural acrobatic talent, although he had not appeared in amateur circus performances. While he listened to ZozÉ he stretched his limbs by walking round the room on his hands, his legs bent back and his feet hanging over his neck. When she had finished her story, he turned a somersault, slipped his arms behind his knees and, in that uncomfortable position, took a few frog-like jumps. Then he straightened himself up smartly and asked:

“Well then, are you going to engage this mummy merchant?”

“Why not; do you mind?” ZozÉ ventured, somewhat frightened.

“I!” Gerald replied. “No, not at all!... All tastes exist in nature!... You already have a novelist, three artists, two musicians and an abbÉ.... The kangaroo will complete your collection.... I congratulate you!”

He bowed with an affected grand manner and declared, as he pointed to the next room.

“You are at home here, dear Madame.”

ZozÉ obeyed him, throwing him as she passed a passionate look. Gerald joined her after a few minutes. While he lit the candles on the mantelpiece, Mme. Chambannes lay silent, looking up to the ceiling, with a sudden serious expression.

She had a fleeting vision of the two nuns who were walking in the cold, in the grassless garden, with their chaplets in their hands.

That brought her a sensation of shame. Confusedly, an idea came to her mind, showing her another life, as good and even probably better than her own, a life devoted to other aims than to go to bed every afternoon, with candles lit.

But Gerald approached and asked imperiously.

“What are we thinking about?”

Suddenly, like a child caught doing a forbidden thing, ZozÉ assumed again her happy, lover-like expression.

“We are thinking.... We are thinking that we adore you, wicked Raldo, who made me feel so miserable this morning.”

She stretched out her arms in a gesture of surrender and appeal.

Gerald slipped into her embrace, coaxing her in naughty whispers.