THE clock of the CollÈge de France sharply struck three. A little door hidden in the gray wall was opened and M. Raindal entered.

He sat behind his large white table, facing his usual audience of eight who waited, pen in hands, ready to take notes.

He took a few manuscript sheets from his portfolio and began simply:

“We concluded, in our last lesson before the new year, the study of the oblatory paintings which have been found in the mastabas of Abu-Roash. From the same point of view we shall begin to-day the study of the mastabas of Dahshour. The paintings contained in this necropolis afford to the historian perhaps more interesting insights than those of Abu-Roash. We find there particulars concerning the private and industrial life of the Egyptians, which may well be considered unique. I, therefore, call your particular attention to this lecture and those that will follow....”

M. Raindal paused and consulted his notes:

“The chief painting in the mastabas of Dahshour is that which was preserved in the tomb of a rich trader of that period, one of those important merchants whose caravans carried on the traffic with Lybia and the Syrian coast. It was first brought to public notice by Brugsch; then it formed the subject of two detailed communications from my young and eminent confrÈre, M. Maspero; these appeared in the Annales du MusÉe de Boulack; and the Revue gyptologie. The name of this trader was Rhanofirnotpou....”

M. Raindal rose from his seat and quickly rubbed the blackboard behind him. A little cloud of white chalk, light as smoke, floated about his sleeve.

“Rha-no-fir-not-pou!...” he spelled out, as he wrote the hieroglyphics of the word upon the board.

He had scarcely finished when the padded door was pushed forward and fell back again noisily. Insidious emanations of iris perfume sharply passed through the room. A lady entered, and with a rustle of silk, sat down behind the students. In spite of himself, and as if compelled by the odor, M. Raindal turned round anxiously. Yes, it was she, it was the pretty little Mme. Chambannes!

He was so upset that on coming back to his place he could do nothing but repeat his first sentence concerning the defunct Rhanofirnotpou.

“ ...One of those important merchants, as I said, one of those rich traders whose caravans....”

Mme. Chambannes! Mme. Chambannes at his lecture, in a blue skirt, a white veil and her otter fur coat! Who could have expected such foolishness, such a childish caprice? And now she was making little signs at him as one does to friends in a theater from box to box: “How do you do, M. Raindal. How do you do, how do you do,” the head of Mme. Chambannes kept on saying.

She desisted, at last, when she noticed that the maste face remained impassive despite her politeness.

Moreover, the coldness of M. Raindal was not her only cause for disappointment. To begin with, she did not understand anything of this story about the paintings of the late Rhanofirnotpou. What! Paintings in a tomb! The great trader must have been an original character! And then she was astonished by the setting.

She had thought that she would enter a grandiose amphitheater, with the audience crowding on the tiers built of oak and varnished by age. Below she had imagined a huge chair as high as that of a judge, and flanked by two ushers with silver chains. In the chair, M. Raindal in a crimson red velvet robe bordered with ermine.... M. Raindal discoursing, playing with his braided bonnet, drinking sugar and water and interrupted at every word by his enthusiastic audience....

What a disillusion! What a contrast to the realities! Who could have imagined this narrow hall with dirty gray walls, those two imitation bronze busts—Plato and Epictetus—perching like Chinese pottery upon two pedestals of imitation stone, this coarse white wood bench that resembled a kitchen table, and rush-bottom chairs piled up on one side near the washed-out Plato as in an old furniture storeroom.

ZozÉ felt almost the same imperceptible melancholy which the spectacle of misery inspires in worthy people. She sought distraction in a successive inspection of the backs and of the necks of the eight students. Two were already bald. Three showed between the shoulders the shining line which the hard back of the omnibus pressed into the cloth. The coat of another was faded. Towards the end of the table, to the left was one with a brown mane—oh, what a wol head!—he surely did not squander his money at the hairdresse!...

She was full of pity for these brave young men. She wished she could give them advice about their clothes, and if necessary help them with her purse.

A scraping of chairs brought her back from her charitable dreams. The lecture was finished. M. Raindal had disappeared. But where? Through the wall, no doubt. And not even a sign of applause! ZozÉ was dumfounded.

She stood up, cramped from having sat so long, and followed the students who were passing out. Some made way for her. None of them stared at her. And those who walked ahead did not turn round to look. She found them discreet and well-bred but somewhat shy.

She paced the huge vestibule, sounding her heels on the tiles for the sake of hearing the echo. Ten minutes passed; she was freezing with cold. She was going to ask Pageot when M. Raindal came forth from the shadows, his portfolio under his arm.

He repressed an angry gesture and assumed a smile as he advanced towards her.

“What! you here, dear madame!” he exclaimed hypocritically.

“Did you not recognize me? I heard your lecture.... I did not understand everything, but it was very interesting!”

M. Raindal sought an excuse in his poor eyesight and asked more anxiously:

“Well, my dear lady, what can I do for you? What is it you wish? To what fortunate hazard do I owe your presence here?”

Fortunate hazard! No, not at all fortunate. Yet, she could not reply: “Gerald has once more played me one of his tricks and put me and my caresses off for two hours.... That is why, having nothing to do, and out of sheer boredom, I came here to see what one of your lectures was like, and perhaps, also, to arrange a little dinner party!” What she said was this, accompanied by a child-like smile:

“No hazard at all, dear master!... I wanted to hear you, that is all.... When it was over, I waited for you, so as to shake your hand....”

“You are too kind, a thousand times ... really!...” M. Raindal murmured distractedly.

He darted frightened glances to right and left as they walked out. When they reached the street, and he saw Mme. Chambannes’ own carriage waiting, he was unable to dominate a desire to run away. He took off his hat.

“Good-by, dear madame.... I hope soon to meet you again.... Please give my compliments to M. Chambannes.”

ZozÉ protested.

“What, master! Do you want me to drive you home?... In such weather!”

With a quizzical frown she showed him the sidewalk which the thawing temperature had apparently coated with syrupy iced coffee. The master declined. From outside her coupÉ, ZozÉ insisted, beating the leather of the cushions as if she were calling a little dog. M. Raindal lost all his composure. If the students, or some of his colleagues were to see him in this ludicrous position! Fear carried the day. He sat beside Mme. Chambannes.

“Tha better. It would have been silly to refuse,” ZozÉ said, and she lowered the front window to give the address to her coachman.

When she closed it again, M. Raindal noticed with relief that all the panes were covered with steam. Protected from sight by the opaque glass, he began to feel more at ease. He smiled at Mme. Chambannes, who was smiling at him.

The carriage rolled rapidly over the carpet of yellow snow. A soft warmth came from the hot water can; the pleasant scent of morocco leather blended with that of violets. M. Raindal sighed with comfort and, waking up, said paternally, to try to blot out the rudeness of his attempted leave-taking:

“It appears then, dear madame, that the lecture did not bore you too much?”

“Quite the contrary! Moreover, I firmly hope that, next time....”

“What next time?”

“I mean the next lecture I attend,” ZozÉ corrected, “and those after....”

M. Raindal darkened.

“Are you thinking of coming again?”

“Perhaps!... Why not?... Are you angry?...”

“Not at all, dear madame, not at all!”

He could say no more. He was paralyzed with stupefaction. So! She wanted to come every Monday, to attend all his lectures, publicly to compromise him, turn him into a laughing-stock for the whole CollÈge, the scientific world and perhaps the whole press! He fancied that he heard the voice of Cyprien: “Ah ha!... it appears that Mme. RhÂm-BÂhan”—the younger Raindal never used any other name for Mme. Chambannes—“it appears that Mme. RhÂm-BÂhan takes to Egyptology.... Bravo! Charming! Delightful!” Then would follow the sly irony of his colleagues, the jealous jests, the allusions, the scandal! No, no! M. Raindal was not going to risk such a misadventure as had often wrecked the careers of many of his illustrious colleagues, because of the fancies of a lady who was, he did not deny it, graceful, attractive and sympathetic, but nevertheless frivolous and devoid of reflective power. He declared firmly:

“Listen, my dear lady.... I have enough esteem for you to tell you the truth.... Well, it seems to me that you are not in a position to derive any benefit from my teaching.... The CollÈge de France is a sort of seminary ... a seed-plot as it were, destined to form young savants ... you understand? The essential aim of the CollÈge de France is to....”

“Yes, yes!” ZozÉ interrupted sadly.... “Yes, my dear master, I can see that my presence is not welcome to you.... But how can I learn for my trip to Egypt, next winter?... What can I do?... What can I do?”

She hung on to her old project of “preparing for her trip”; she clung to it with an alluring obstinacy which was gradually getting on M. Rainda nerves. Phew! Let her “prepare” as best she could! He moved away from her and, in his impatience, let fall his portfolio.

Mme. Chambannes caught it deftly: “Poor M. Raindal!” she said, giving him one of the sidelong looks that were her natural way of looking at people.... “I am boring you, am I not?”

He blushed for his brusqueness. “Not at all! I am trying to think of some way in which I can help you with your studies, with your preparatory reading....”

ZozÉ frowned with attention. Suddenly, a joyful flicker swiftly passed over her caressing eyes.

“I ... I have an idea,” she insinuated; “an idea which has just occurred to me.”

“What is it?”

“But it is so indiscreet!”

“Never mind!... Tell me!” M. Raindal urged, feeling that his indulgence was once more wearing out.

“No, I shall never dare!”

She still hesitated, her eyes plunged into his. She decided to speak at last, when the carriage stopped at the door of his house.

There it was: she wished, if it were not too much trouble, that the master would agree to come to the rue de Prony, once a week, on Thursdays, or at least twice a month, not to give her lessons—no, ZozÉ would never bring herself to risk so impudent a request—but to talk to her, simply, as a friend, to guide her in her studies, to indicate to her what she should read....

“You understand.... I know that it is very indiscreet.... Yet, if you would ... it would make me so happy!... Wo you, dear master?”

Gently she laid her white-gloved hand on the maste knee, in a familiar gesture that had no touch of second-thought coquetry, as she had touched the knee of a kind grandfather—of her Uncle Panhias, for instance, when she was asking a favor. M. Raindal was intimidated and dared not move away. On seeing this slight, elegant creature bent before him in such an ingenuous and humbly craving attitude, he felt pleasantly troubled and mistook that feeling for regret, for tenderness.

“Hm!... Madame!” he murmured, assuming again a pleasant voice.... “It would grieve me very much to displease you.... Nevertheless, you must realize that my obligations ... my work....”

“Oh! I know, I know!” ZozÉ said with feigned resignation.

Time passed. Raindal looked through the steam, at the soft silhouettes of the passers-by, unable to make up his mind to bid her good-night.

Suddenly he started, as if a shooting pain had passed through him.

“What is it, dear master?” ZozÉ asked in a solicitous tone.

“Nothing, nothing, my dear lady!” Oh! almost nothing—he had merely recognized at the end of the street certain swaggering shoulders, a certain martial gait, merely Uncle Cyprien who was walking straight to the carriage, flourishing his thick reddish cornel stick.

M. Raindal envied for a minute the distant shelter of the late Rhanofirnotpou. Why was he not in the deepest part of the hypogee, in the dark serdab, in the cement-sealed partition, instead of finding himself in a cage that seemed suddenly all windows, with a young and pretty woman who harassed him with her prayers!

“Do you really want to, dear master?... Nothing like set dates.... I promise you.... You could fix the hours, the days....”

“I am trying to find, I am trying!” he replied mechanically, while attentively watching the rapid march of the enemy.

Uncle Cyprien was coming nearer; his features became more distinct; he reached the carriage. As he passed, he gave the turn-out a contemptuous and yet mistrustful glance and walked up the alley. Unconsciously M. Raindal heaved a sigh of relief. He put his hand out to Mme. Chambannes.

“Good-by, dear madame.... I shall think about it; l let you know.”

ZozÉ pouted with disappointment.

“And I was in hopes you would give me your answer now!”

M. Raindal passed a hand over his eyes, to sweep a painful vision away—that of his brother who might be coming down again, meeting him as he came out of the carriage and thereby acquiring a pretext for interminable sarcasm.... The savant murmured hurriedly:

“Very well then, madame, very well.... I shall come this week....”

“How kind of you.... How about Thursday? Next Thursday at 5....”

“Yes, Thursday at 5 lock.”

“You do know how sweet you are.” She grasped his hand and looked at him with an expression of radiant gratefulness. But M. Rainda fingers were slipping out.

“Oh! excuse me!” she exclaimed.... “You are in a hurry.... Till Thursday, then, 5 lock!... I am counting on you, dear master....”

M. Raindal closed her door and saluted awkwardly. The carriage started. A “Good-night! Good-by!” caused him to turn round again. He saw Zoz little white glove making a parting friendly signal from the window of her coupÉ.

M. Raindal put off confiding the tale of this meeting to ThÉrÈse from day to day, until Thursday arrived; it was as if he dreaded to bear her criticism. Phew! he knew well enough the objections she would make: his position among European savants, his academic standing, the ridiculous situation he risked finding himself in when engaged in so vague a task of popular instruction. He was even less anxious to hear the not unfair remarks of his daughter since the idea of going again to Mme. Chambannes was not repugnant to him, although he did not go so far as to admit it to himself. Once out of the hallowed atmosphere of the CollÈge, and saved from his brother Cyprien, he had begun to reproach himself for having so sharply rebuked his attractive admirer. Poor child! Should he not, on the contrary, find it touching, the case of this futile young person who was seized with a sudden passion for knowledge? Did it not afford him matter for observation, a subject most highly fascinating for a man of thought? Why, here was a chance for a thorough study of a personality! His mind recalled the picturesque attitude of her profile—a little suppliant—the tiny hand on his knee: “Do you want to come, dear-r master-r!” To be sure, he wanted to go! Certainly, he was going! If for no other reason, he would go for sheer selfishness, out of a savan curiosity. And Mlle. ThÉrÈse—he thought, almost snappishly—well, it would be quite soon enough if he informed her after the lessons had begun!

Thus came the Thursday morning, and M. Raindal had not betrayed the mystery of his appointment.

He felt, therefore, somewhat ill at ease when ThÉrÈse entered the study about 9. How unfortunate! Precisely at that hour he was busy packing books for Mme. Chambannes! However, he did not lose countenance, but exclaimed gaily:

“Hello! here you are, dear!”

She submitted to his kiss, then touched two of the large volumes he had piled up on the table.

“What is it, father?... Maspero.... Ebers!... Are you beginning to lend books?...”

“No!” M. Raindal declared, stiffening against his uneasiness. “These are books I am going to send to Mme. Chambannes.”

“To Mme. Chambannes!” ThÉrÈse replied, dumfounded.

“Well, yes....”

He then related all the episodes of the previous Monday, with the exception, however, of the decisive appearance of Uncle Cyprien.

ThÉrÈse listened quietly. When he had finished, she looked up. Her thin lips met in sarcastic contraction. Anger was gathering under her heavy frown. She asked him:

“Are you going?”

“Well, since I promised her!... I shall go two or three Thursdays.... The most elementary courtesy requires it.... Later, I shall see whether I should continue or not.”

“Very good, father!” she replied, disguising with difficulty the trembling she felt in her voice. “Just as you say.... You may be sure I would not presume to give you my advice....”

“But if I were to ask you for it?” M. Raindal said pluckily.

She burst out.

“If you were to ask me, I would tell you that this Mme. Chambannes is a little fool, that her set is extremely frivolous, that those you are taking up with will bring you nothing but unpleasantness and affronts.... I would tell you.... But, no, father, my respect commands me to be silent.”

The tips of her fingers rose and fell on her crossed arms, like two palpitating wings.

“Oh, ho! We are getting excited!” M. Raindal replied, as if he felt jocular. “Phew! If I remember rightly, little girl, you were not so severe on the evening of the ball.... Do you recollect, after dinner?...”

ThÉrÈse could not repress a shrug.

“What, father! Did you understand that I meant it to be sarcastic, that those people were hateful to me, that they were revolting to me?... Have you sized them up yourself?... All that Uncle Cyprien tells us is mere childishness in presence of the truth.... Race, blood, nationality—there is much more than these! They are people of a species different from ours, do you hear me, father? All of them, Germans, Prussians, French, English, Italians or what not, they belong to one and the same band, to one tribe, and one that will never be ours.... To think that you, a man in your position.... because this little fool flattered you, coaxed you!”

These last words caused a sharp contraction of his mouth.

“Allow me,” he said. “No, no, you must allow me, child.... You are wandering.... You forget somewhat whom you are addressing.... And you must admit that I have the right, with my ripe experience, to tell you that I am perhaps quite as good a judge of people as you are.... You must admit also that, up to the present, I have led my life in a way that gives neither you nor me any cause for blushing. Am I not right?”

Instead of replying, ThÉrÈse affected to glance through the pages of a book. He went on, more softly:

“Believe me, my dear!... You should leave these and other theories to your excellent Uncle Cyprien.... Tell me that you do not like Mme. Chambannes; that her company inspires you with repulsion and mistrust.... Have no fear! If your impressions are justified, I shall be the first to notice it and to regulate my attitude accordingly.... But give up at least this attempt to delude yourself or me; do not transform your personal animosities into social views.... This would be unworthy of you, of your culture, of your intellectual position.... And when all is said, you know it yourself!”

He smiled and gave her a look of appeal.

“Come, give me a kiss!”

The girl approached and offered her forehead. M. Raindal laid a long kiss upon it and pressed her firmly in his arms.

“Huh lah! le laugh!” the master exhorted her, for the face of ThÉrÈse, although now calm, remained inert and dreamy.

Her lips parted in an oblique smile.

“Very good! Perfect!” M. Raindal said, exaggerating the satisfaction he derived from her incomplete grin.

Lunch was a silent affair. M. Raindal avoided his daughte eyes. He was secretly relieved when he heard that she was going to the Library after lunch. He did not ask what she was going for; he preferred her to be away when he left.

Towards 4 lock, he donned a smooth frock-coat and took up a pair of new gloves, whose gray skin stuck to his flesh. He hurried, for fear of missing the omnibus. But he noticed, on reaching the street, that the sidewalk was muddy. He called a cab.