Fernand VandErem

FOR once Uncle Cyprien had not exaggerated. Ever since the day of their disappointment in the rue de Prony, M. Raindal had been unable to rid himself of a feeling of hostility whenever he saw his brother; either because the sight of Uncle Cyprien recalled an unpleasant memory or because the master feared his brothe questions. At each visit he showed him a more bitter coldness.

The departure of Mme. Chambannes had dealt M. Rainda heart a blow from which it was still throbbing. Of course, a week later he had received a few lines from ZozÉ, in which she apologized for her discourteous flight; she had had some small anxieties which she could no doubt explain in person the next time they met. But the very vagueness of this postponement caused the master as much impatience as if the young woman had kept back every particular concerning her flight. Little anxieties! Surely they were not caused by Chambannes who was still away, and far from Paris. By whom then, and of what sort were they? Money troubles? A very unlikely hypothesis. Family troubles? No, since the only relation Mme. Chambannes had, had gone with her to Les Frettes. Love troubles? M. Raindal vehemently repulsed this latter solution which, in reality, excited his anger more than his incredulity. Whenever the idea of it came within the horizon of his dreams, he bent all his effort towards its destruction as if it were an absurd nightmare.

Love troubles, Mme. Chambannes! The maste friendship rebelled against such a foolish calumny. Coquettish, frivolous, childish—she might be that; but in love, his little pupil, never! Not to him could they come with such inventions, to him who knew her well, who had been studying her and judging her for nearly four months. The only young man who was in a position to court her, the tall Gerald de Meuze, hardly seemed with those languid ways and that tired expression of his, the hero who was at all likely to captivate such a vivacious, sprightly nature. At the most only a robust officer, an ardent young poet or an illustrious musician might have a faint chance, not to seduce her, but perhaps to trouble her thoughts. Not without a secret feeling of relief, M. Raindal admitted to himself that there was no such favored one about Mme. Chambannes.

Nevertheless, as he came to these conclusions a melancholy feeling suddenly brought him down from the heights again. He remembered his arrival in the rue de Prony, the empty house and the outrageous treatment accorded him. How little she must have cared for him to have forgotten him so! How very low and precarious must be his place in her affections and her thoughts. How much he had over-estimated the influence and the attraction which he exercised upon her.

He resolved for the sake of his dignity not to answer her letter, but every day that passed without bringing him news shook the proud resolution. Where was she? How did she spend her days and her evenings? Why did she not call him to her?

He would sometime lift himself up out of his misery by some sudden flight of vanity. He swore that he would never again condescend to take any notice of such trifling inquiries which proved so humiliating for a superior mind like his. He was close to the precipitous regions where floats the pure breeze of eternity; but he did not remain very long making plans alone on those calm heights. After a little while the light image of ZozÉ soared up to join him and he would sigh as he saw her again. A sudden clearness of sight revealed to him how strongly attached he was to his little pupil. He shrugged his shoulders, recalled his grievances against Mme. Chambannes and attempted to disdain her. The effort was vain. He wished to feel contempt and resentment, but she inspired him with nothing but regret.

In the midst of his disquietude he found no solace but in work on the new book which he was preparing: a book, as he told ThÉrÈse, which might possibly share the success of the previous one.... I say no more now.... I am waiting for the idea to ripen.... You will see.... It is not bad....

Again he paced his study, his hands behind his back, his head bent forward as if it were reaching out towards the runaway flock of his ideas.

The provisional title of the book was: The Idlers of Ancient Egypt. It would be a moral study supported by historical documents rather than a work of erudition.

M. Raindal proposed to establish by means of examples that their great social moving force was the search after pleasure and especially the so-called gallant pleasures: the whole effort of human labor tended towards woman and her conquest. The refinements, especially, and all the arts often owed to her their birth and always their prosperity. It was for woman that the stones were set in gold, the silks embroidered and all the melodies resounded. M. Raindal meditated upon these developments so much that he had more than once fallen a prey to fever and headaches. At his call, the facts jumped out of their cells and rushed to line themselves in battle array as if they were well disciplined little soldiers. There was notably one chapter—Chapter VI—on Love and Gallantry in Ancient Egypt based on the religious legends, the toilet paraphernalia and the popular stories which had been discovered, and of which the master already possessed the main line and almost every paragraph.

There were days, however, when he conceived certain scruples concerning the value of his idea. Would not people charge him with pursuing the same attempt at scandal which his last book had inaugurated? Would they not reproach him with lingering purposely in immoral episodes? Did he even possess the gift, the necessary competency to fathom the prodigious problems of sentiment?

The first two queries M. Raindal rejected wholly in the name of the contempt which a lofty soul owes to insinuations that are prompted by jealousy.

The third one seemed to him more delicate a subject and more likely to give rise to controversies. He delighted in discussing it with Boerzell, who never failed to come every Sunday to pay the permitted call in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs.

“Sincerely, M. Boerzell,” he asked, “do you think that a man needs to have been a libertine to properly appreciate the subtleties of sentiment? Do you believe, in short, that to speak competently of love it is necessary that a man should be a specialist in it, a professional, a practitioner, as it were?”

“Oh, master!” Boerzell replied cautiously, “tha a complex question.... I must say i one I have considered....”

“Do you think,” continued M. Raindal, “that a multitude of sentiments exist which one appreciates all the better for not having felt them oneself?”

“That is incontestable!” Boerzell answered.

“You observe that in this matter one is able to retain a freshness of impression, a preciseness of view which prove to be of the highest value in scientific analyses.... One is not blinded either by vanity or by the intervention of personal recollections.... The mind retains, intact, its impartiality, its penetration, and the calm which is indispensable for regular observations....”

“Surely, master!” Boerzell admitted. “Nevertheless do you fear that a certain coldness might result from this procedure?”

“Not at all, my dear sir!” M. Raindal protested. “What is essential is that one should love the idea of the subject with which one deals, love love, if it is of love that one is writing.... The warmth of sympathy warms everything.... Our works are like our children. Only those which we do not love as we conceive them are cold and unsatisfying.”

Slowly he went back to his study, while Boerzell smiled at ThÉrÈse. In the course of their frequent conversations, the young savant had obtained little fragmentary confidences which left him no doubts concerning the worldly indiscretions of the master.

On the fourth Sunday, M. Raindal did not come to the drawing-room. He had gone out, ostensibly to visit the director of the CollÈge, but in reality to go to make sure that his little pupil had not returned to her house without giving him warning. The sight of the closed shutters destroyed his hopes. Nevertheless he rang the bell repeatedly, but no answer came. Yet the first days of May had arrived! When would she come back? He walked slowly along the half-deserted streets. Everything he saw brought him some painful recollection. How often he had passed these places, with his soul and eyes still softened by Mme. Chambannes’ sweetness! What a change now? How forsaken he was! To rid himself of such sorrowful thoughts or to oppose them by a physical denial from his own lips, he smiled all the way at the little girls and the little boys in their Sunday clothes, whom their parents lazily dragged by the hand.

When the master returned home, Boerzell had not gone yet but was still chatting with ThÉrÈse. Near them, Mme. Raindal was reading a pious book. The master attempted to appear in a merry mood. The recent misfortune of one of his colleagues whose trust had been abused by forgers served him as a pretext to scoff at the learned. After all, what was the value of brute science if it was not animated by the spirit? What would his next work be, for instance, if M. Raindal did not prop it up with general and human considerations? Boerzell agreed completely and by a clever digression he brought the conversation back to the social rÔle of love. The master took the bait eagerly. His nerves were voluptuously relaxed by this pleasant contest of dialectics against so subtle an adversary. The night fell before he had ended his discourse.

“You will dine with us, wo you, M. Boerzell?” he said, when Brigitte came to light the lamp.

He only let the young man go at eleven lock, dazed by the contest and so tired that he could only stammer. But this melancholy seized him again as soon as he was alone with his daughter. He hardly said good-night and rushed to his bed as if toward a distraction, an asylum of forgetfulness.

The next morning he did not rise until half past eight. There was nothing from Mme. Chambannes in his mail. Peevishly, he was splashing water over his face, when Brigitte suddenly entered.

“A telegram for monsieur....”

“My glasses. Give me my glasses, I tell you!”

He felt a commotion within himself as he recognized on the blue paper the writing of Mme. Chambannes. He opened the express letter and read:

Sunday evening.

My dear master:

I am back at last. I am anxious to see you again. Why not take advantage of the fact that the tradesmen and my friends will still be leaving me alone to make our great visit to the Louvre to-morrow morning? Unless I hear from you, therefore, let it be to-morrow morning at nine-thirty in the place du Carrousel, in front of the pavilion de Sully. How pleasant it will be to meet again!

Your little pupil,

Z. Chambannes.

Instinctively M. Raindal consulted the clock which marked nine lock and he rushed to the door.

“Brigitte!” he shouted in the passage.... “Brigitte, my frock coat.... The new one.... My patent leather shoes.... My hat.... Hurry up, my good girl.”

“What is the matter, father?” said ThÉrÈse, who had come out at the disturbance.

M. Raindal regretted having shouted so loudly; he was now compelled to tell the truth.

“Oh! i Mme. Chambannes!” he replied, scratching his neck under his beard. “She has made an appointment for 9.30 for me to take her to the Louvre.... I have no time to waste, as you can see.”

He noticed a smile on the gir face and asked:

“What are you laughing at?”

“I am not laughing!” ThÉrÈse replied, having recovered her composure.

M. Raindal was upset.

“Yes, you are laughing! You ca deny it.... Go on; speak.... What were you laughing at?”

“Do you really want to know, father?... Very well! It is because to-day is Monday, and the museum is closed....”

“I had forgotten.... Yet it is true enough!... But I cannot keep her waiting....” It suddenly dawned upon him that he was being suspected of telling an untruth. He held out the special delivery and said, “You can look for yourself! The day and the hour are set down.... ‘To-morrow morning at 9.30.’”

Haughtily, ThÉrÈse brushed the paper aside.

“Oh, it is quite unnecessary, father!”

“Yes, yes! I want you to look at it....”

She threw a swift glance at the paper and handed it back to M. Raindal:

“You are right!... Hurry up!...”

“All right! I am much obliged to you!” he grumbled.

He recollected himself only when he reached the pavilion de Sully. Ten lock was just striking at the big clock above the pink columns of the door. M. Raindal sighed with relief. He was on time and that made him forget his anger at ThÉrÈse.

The vast place stretched out before him. It was shaded and deserted in the lofty frame of its several illustrious palaces. In the distance, the open space of the Tuileries seemed to be a region of light without end, whose white reflection made the sky paler. A warm breeze came from it and at intervals bent down the green grass of the neighboring gardens. The master took a deep breath. He loved this milky and delightful aroma of the morning air in the spring. And his soul was gradually harmonizing itself with the lofty quiet of the scene.

He walked up and down in front of the peristyle, glancing at his light gloves which he was fastening. The approach of a carriage made him look up, and he saw at one of the high windows of the Colbert pavilion two clerks of the Finance Ministry who were watching him smilingly. Their inspection did not hurt his feelings. He imagined to himself the surprised admiration which the young men would feel when Mme. Chambannes arrived. Yes, of course! He was waiting for a lady! And what a lady! These two gentlemen had probably never seen in their life one so elegant and so special!

An open carriage was coming towards the pavilion de Sully by the avenue on the left. The master rushed over just in time to help Mme. Chambannes out. She had on a dark blue costume with a shot-silk blouse which sparkled at the opening of her short jacket. She placed her little white gloved hand in that of M. Raindal and gave him a candid little laugh of greeting and thankfulness.

“Well, dear master,” she said, when she had paid her driver, “you are not too angry with me, are you? Were you very indignant at your little pupil?...”

M. Raindal blinked under the tender glance which pervaded him. He had grown unaccustomed to it.

“Not at all, dear lady!...” he stammered. “Above all things I am delighted to see you again.... Is M. Chambannes well?”

“Quite.... He came back last night.... By the way, he asked me to invite you to the opera to-night.... They are giving “Samson and Delilah” and “The Korringane.” We have a box on the second tier.... You will come, wo you?”

“Oh! Madame....”

“Yes, yes, you will come.... I want you to!” She looked about her inquiringly and noticed the plate with big gold letters over the peristyle:

“It is here, is it?”

“Alas! i impossible to-day, dear Madame!...” the master exclaimed, and ZozÉ assumed an expression of displeasure.

“For the one time that free, how vexing!... What shall we do, then?”

“I do know, Madame!... Whatever you like!”

Distractedly he glanced at the circular little open spaces where the leaves of the trees rustled in the breeze. One could not see inside them. The very access to them seemed forbidden by the thick foliage pressed against the gates. They were like two gallant theatrical property gardens, put there by mistake or merely temporarily. The master thought, “This would be perfect!” And he pointed to the nearer of these little gardens.

“Would you like to go in there for a little chat before we part?”

“It is a good idea!” Mme. Chambannes said. “These lovely squares are delightful.”

The garden consisted of a tiny little lawn surrounded by four green benches carved to imitate the antique. They sat on one of them opposite the Pavilion Denon. In front of the latter a row of statues was placed at regular intervals, isolated and alike in their equalizing marble costumes. No other eyes but their lifeless ones looked upon the square.

“Ther no crowd here!” Mme. Chambannes remarked. Then she pointed to the statues with her sunshade, and added: “And to think that you will be like this one day, dear master!”

“Nothing is less assured, madame,” M. Raindal replied modestly.

“But I, where shall I be then?” ZozÉ went on gravely.

“O, what ugly thoughts!... Was it your stay at Les Frettes which made you so gloomy?”

“No, it was not that, since, to tell the truth, ZozÉ had enjoyed herself very much there. Nature and solitude had made her feel better; had helped her to recuperate from Paris! For, in truth, what woman was there who did not sometimes grow weary of Paris? What woman does not in the end become satiated with visits, gossip, theaters, dress-makers, and the whole worldly surfeit of activity?... The country, with one or two good friends, like M. Raindal for instance, the rest, the fresh air cure, such seemed to be for the present Mme. Chambannes’ ideal dream. And if she had returned, it was because....”

“Excuse me,” the master interrupted. “Why did you leave?... Perhaps I am indiscreet in reminding you of your promise....”

“No, not at all....”

She had her two elbows on her knees in a pose of meditation and was digging the sand with the point of her sunshade.

“I left because I had troubles.... A friend in whom I had faith and who betrayed me shamefully.”

“Ah!... I am very sorry for you!” said he.

She looked up to the heavens in a melancholy ecstasy. A dewy languor appeared about her eyelashes. She was transfigured by sorrow. In her little starched collar which was so modern and masculine, her features assumed, in her affliction, the air of a perverse holiness.

“And so you had a great deal of trouble?” M. Raindal said again, without taking his eyes off her.

“Oh yes, a great deal!”

“My poor friend!” murmured the master, whose voice was altered. “You will allow me to call you this?”

Mme. Chambannes nodded.

“I do want to ask you any more about your departure!” he continued. “I have hurt you unwittingly, and it would be inexcusable if I were to insist ... but, in future, if ever you are unhappy, I beg of you, do treat me as a friend, confide in me. You need not give me any details; just tell me that you are suffering, and I shall do my very best to lighten your burden, to find distractions for you.... I have so much affection for you....”

“Thank you!” she said, somewhat surprised at the urgent tone he was using. “Thank you.... How kind you are, dear master.”

She had half turned towards him and looked at him with one of her most fervent smiles. Bottomless depths yawned in her eyes. Her whole face trembled in coquettish sauciness. M. Raindal thought that a flame was piercing his temples. He was carried away by delirium. With a shy briskness he seized Mme. Chambannes’ hand: and, in a frantic kiss, his lips pressed upon it the avowal of love which they had not dared to utter.

“Oh! be careful!” Mme. Chambannes said, as she moved away from him.

“Of what?” the master asked awkwardly.

His forehead was wet with the perspiration of anguish. To give himself countenance he tried to laugh but he repressed it at once, perplexed and disconcerted by the young woma expression. She looked severe yet showed no anger. She expressed modest alarm rather than resentment. Her eyes remained dark in spite of a sarcastic twinkle which contracted the corners. What was she going to do? Would she be indignant, would she forgive or smile?

She rose and in a calm voice in which faintly trembled an ironical echo, said:

“Good-by, dear master. I must go home.... Will you see me to a cab, please?”

M. Raindal gave her hand an imperceptible pressure and replied, while his eyes wandered towards the statues on the colonnade.

“With pleasure, dear madame.”

She passed first through the narrow doorway of the gate. M. Raindal followed her, absentmindedly playing with his gloves.

As soon as she was seated and the wheels began to move, he recovered enough daring to glance at her. She looked her usual self once more; her eyes were again tender and challenging.

“By the way, we meet to-night!” said she. “Do not forget, dear master, box No. 40....”

As soon as she was out of the Carrousel she was unable to remain serious any longer. She smiled so openly and intensely that a street urchin imitated her and cried out:

“Bon dieu, how funny it is!...”

Yes, surely, it was funny. PÈre Raindal in love! Who could have thought it possible? What a kiss he had given her, a kiss like a blow, it was so brutal and bashful at the same time! Poor man!... What a pity that she had broken away from that nasty Germaine! How they would have made merry together over this little story.

The memory of her perfidious friend caused Mme. Chambannes’ face to darken again. She lost her pleasant mood until after lunch, when she told her aunt Panhias of her interview.

“Be careful, child!” that voluminous lady urged. “At that age, it is sometimes very dangerous!”

“For whom?” asked ZozÉ.

“Not for you, of course!”

Mme. Chambannes expelled a cloud of smoke from her cigarette:

“Have no fear. I shall be careful.... Who knows? Perhaps I was mistaken!”

“Perhaps!” her aunt replied skeptically.

ZozÉ said nothing. Once more she saw the garden of the Louvre and the ardent and timorous expression of M. Raindal. If only Gerald had been there, hidden somewhere among the bushes! She was delighted with this idea of semi-reprisals. She smoked two more cigarettes as she imagined successively the burlesque and the pathetic sides of the scene.

That evening the opera exhibited one of those spring gatherings where, in a sparkle of light, precious tones and uncovered shoulders—all the public display of luxury and beauty, of wealth and aristocracy which had apparently been a thing of the past, came to life again.

As soon as ZozÉ came in, many opera glasses from clubmen and first tier boxes were leveled upon her.

For she had advanced in caste the little Mouzarkhi girl. They were now putting down to her credit the two years of her liaison. If this did not create for her a link of relationship with the surrounding fashionable Élite, at least it was a victory to her credit, a successful campaign which made the distance appear smaller. She was no longer the little exotic, unknown person concerning whom they had once inquired in an almost contemptuous tone. She was almost one of themselves, the little Chambannes woman, who had captured and kept young de Meuze for two whole years; and under the mask of their glasses, which hid half their faces, their lips formed smiles of good will towards her.

Then there was the presence of the old gentleman who sat next to ZozÉ in the front of the box; this piqued their curiosity. They had to wait for the interval in order to find out who he was.

In the meantime, the hope of the young Philistines appeared at the back of the stage. Delilah led, her black hair overloaded with flowers and multicolored jewels. They were singing in an enraptured voice a sensuous love chorus:

M. Raindal stiffened himself at the sharp shiver which ran down his back. Instinctively he looked at the audience. The silence had become graver and more vibrant. A voluptuous tide mounted from the orchestra to the boxes along with the languorous music. Savage lights shone in the eyes of some of the women; breasts were panting; the heavy artillery of the opera glasses was firing glances at full speed. Almost everyone in the audience, men and women, after a long day of hypocrisy, acknowledged themselves at last lovers, moved by the cynical suggestiveness of the chorus.

The master was absorbed in making comparisons. He remembered other evenings he had spent at the opera with ThÉrÈse and Mme. Raindal, in boxes offered them by the ministry, during the summer or on the occasion of some sÉance of the SociÉtÉs Savantes. What a transformation—not to say what progress—had taken place since then in his mind! How many social phenomena at that time had been still inaccessible to him, as if they had been matters of indifference or had not existed at all! That was his explanation for his yawns in the past, for the feeling of boredom and almost discomfort which he had felt at those performances. He had lacked so many elements necessary to appreciate their harmonies! To-day, on the other hand....

He looked back towards the audience. All the seats were occupied. The ballet of the priestesses of Dagon was beginning and a libertine gayety now relaxed all faces in accordance with the merry grace of the dancers.

Mentally M. Raindal took note of the change. How many shades there were in the aristocratic depravity of the assembly! How many tiny degrees there were between their previous seriousness and their present joviality!

He marked the beat of the fast Oriental rhythm which regulated the steps of the dancers, and at the same time he furtively examined Mme. Chambannes, his dear friend, as he did not yet dare openly to call her.

A slight uncertain smile hovered on her fine little face which reverie had rendered motionless. At times, however, she would seize her glasses and aim them at a box or a row of seats; then, when her inspection was over, she would throw a sort of compensating glance at M. Raindal. When the curtain went down she took refuge with the master in the tiny salon which formed a kind of boudoir behind. Chambannes stood behind them. He gave very little attention to the words of M. Raindal, who was describing, with reference to the most recent discoveries of the exegetists, the rites and the ins and outs of the cult of Dagon. Moreover, the curtain rose again before the master had finished.

The scenery represented a garden with a green bench in the foreground and to the right the villa of delights where the crime was to be accomplished.

When Delilah sat down on the bench surrounded with shrubs and Samson, panting with love, let himself fall there beside her, M. Raindal could not refrain from casting a sly glance of allusion towards ZozÉ. While affecting not to have noticed it, Mme. Chambannes pleasantly accentuated with a smile the dreamy look on her face. The master thanked her with a little friendly cough.

Oh! Had he been so very much at fault this morning? Considering it calmly and at a distance, he did not regret that mad kiss, that indiscreet caress which had been at least open enough to deserve respect. Why should he try any longer to hide those sentiments of his which were so sincere? Why affect indifference, when it was the very reverse which Mme. Chambannes inspired him with?... Love? Oh, no. But a certain tenderness, a certain affection, which although it was not exclusively paternal, nevertheless did not go beyond the limits authorized by the difference in age between a very young woman and a man of advanced years. What was the use of concealing by subterfuge and illusory lies, the liveliness of this inclination? Was not history full of such examples? Without mentioning Ruth and Boaz, whose romance it seemed had had a bourgeois ending, could he not mention a great number of masters who had most absolutely fallen in love with their disciples, men or women, in spite of the unlikeness of their minds and the difference in their ages? What was there, for instance, in common between the mind of a Socrates and that of an Alcibiades?...

The sweet melody which Delilah murmured to Samson followed just in time to draw the master away from such risky comparisons. The play was approaching its climax. At the fall of the curtain the Philistine soldiery silently surrounded the little house where the betrayed hero slept. M. Raindal recited softly to himself the never-to-be-forgotten stanza:

He went on with it, and Mme. Chambannes declared the lines very pretty. She wished to know the name of the author.

“It is from Vigny, madame!” said M. Raindal, as he joined her in the little salon at the back of the box.

Chambannes went out. They remained alone. M. Raindal asked himself whether it would do to repeat his kiss of the morning, if only to signify to Mme. Chambannes that his new intentions persisted. But finding himself still slightly irresolute, he thought it best to remain on the safe ground of literary conversation.

Just as he was beginning to tell of the tragic love affair between de Vigny and Mme. Dorval, however, the door was suddenly pushed open. A tall dark man stood at the entrance of the box. M. Raindal saw nothing at first but his black moustache and his big laughing eyes.

“Ah, M. de Meuze!... Come in!” Mme. Chambannes exclaimed, with ready ease.

Nevertheless she blushed, and between her eyelashes came such a caressing, joyous, submissive look directed toward Gerald that M. Raindal felt suddenly hurt. He wanted to join their conversation, criticize the players and praise the music. But the words refused to come at his bidding. A sudden rush of ill humor flooded his inspiration. He got up.

“Are you going out, dear master?” ZozÉ asked.

“Oh, just for one minute to stretch myself and get some fresh air.”

He had unwittingly banged the door. He wandered aimlessly along the passages until he came to the loggias of the staircase.

“You!” Chambannes exclaimed, as he came forward to meet him.

M. Raindal replied dully:

“Yes, it was too warm in that little room.... I left your wife with M. de Meuze, junior, or rather, if you prefer, the son....”

Chambannes did not seem surprised by this revelation. M. Raindal thought him somewhat stupid. They returned together at the first ring of the bell announcing the end of the interval.

ZozÉ was alone in the box. She received the master with a radiant smile of welcome.

“Had a good walk?”

“Not bad!” said M. Raindal, who felt disarmed by so much charm.

Nevertheless, he preserved a gloomy aspect during the whole of the third act. He kept on thinking of Gerald. That young man he had never regarded very sympathetically. He was vague and a coxcomb and the impertinent expressions his face assumed were in no wise justified by his very poor intelligence, banal opinions, and remarkable ignorance of literature: in fact, there was nothing about him that could appeal to M. Raindal. And then—the master hung tenaciously to this memory—physically did he not recall to mind the image of Dastarac, that scoundrel of a Dastarac? Had he not been the cause of the failure of the excellent Boerzell, at the Saulvard party? There was no doubt about it. It was from this that had sprung his first feeling of antipathy. It was futile to seek any further! Consequently, M. Raindal did not attempt it.

He did not try very hard to follow the direction of Zoz glances as she scanned the huge hall. It would have been a hard task to follow them and to discover the place that she was especially seeking. Her glances were so uncertain and so fugitive; they spread their tenderness over so many people and so much space! The master made one or two fruitless attempts and then gave it up. He merely asked her in a careless tone:

“Where does M. de Meuze sit?”

“M. de Meuze?... In the orchestra, I think.... But I believe he is no longer there.... He was going to spend the rest of the evening with some friends....”

“Ah! very good!” said M. Raindal nonchalantly. “I was asking, you know, simply because....”

To be sure, ZozÉ knew! She bit her lips not to smile. So! her aunt Panhias had not been so far wrong. She must be careful.

The evening ended without any further difficulty. M. Raindal had enjoyed the final ballet very much; and the steps of the SabotiÈre had made him enthusiastic.

When he returned home he went to his study. Before retiring for the night he wished to set down a few moral observations which had come to him in the course of the evening. They all had a bearing upon the rÔle of woman as a social motive, and they would find their place in Chapter VI.

When he had written the last words, M. Raindal gathered up the sheets. There were no less than six large pages covered with small handwriting and without a correction.