THE Thursday lessons had started again. Although they had not altogether banished Egypt, that subject was suffering from a gradual disgrace. As a rule Mme. Chambannes had failed to read the prescribed books. Or else a stray word sent them both into a friendly gossip concerning the little happenings of the day: a new dress of Zoz, which the master declared to his taste, her account of a dance or a play, and subjects that were even more trivial. Once they had run away from the arid regions of science, neither of the two found enough courage to return there. By common consent, they avoided the paths of conversation which might have led them back. It was only towards the end that Mme. Chambannes would exclaim:

“Well!... Another fine lesson!... If it goes on like this, I shall know a lot at the end of the year!... Ah! What a deplorable professor you are!...”

M. Raindal smiled. Then, if he had not already abused that license, he seized Zoz hand and ardently pressed his lips against it. Wisely, she allowed him but two or three such tender outbursts at each lesson. Yet in her heart she was flattered. It amused her to see this famous, white-haired, man bending over her with love. His white hair contrasted with his skin and made it look pinker, and she found this play of color neat and pleasant to her eyes.

On the third Thursday she inquired about Cyprien. Why did not M. Raindal introduce his brother to her? She was quite anxious to meet him. The master replied evasively:

“Oh, my dear friend!”—as he called her now when they were alone and in the intimacy of their lessons—“my brother is a good fellow.... Yet I doubt very much whether you could get on together.... His temperament is brusque; he is an extremist, an absurd man.... Again, I noticed from certain signs that your absence of a month ago displeased him.... I prefer, therefore, not to risk myself in explanation of which I do not foresee any favorable results....”

“Just as you say!” replied ZozÉ, who had only insisted out of politeness.

M. Raindal nevertheless had almost spoken the truth. Uncle Cyprien had never omitted, during the last few weeks, any occasion to flay, en passant, the discourteous ways of Mme. RhÂm-BÂhan.

Systematically, resolutely, and in spite of everything, he was doing his best to prevent his brother from urging an introduction. To go and hobnob with the Chambannes and their friends, that would be the last straw! To go there, where he would have to meet Pums, the marquis, perhaps Talloire, who would stupidly come and pat him on the shoulder, compromise him and denounce him with their accomplice-like cordiality, so that M. Raindal would learn of his dealings at the Bourse, his speculating in gold mines! No, thank you! He preferred to lie, to resort to the very worst stratagems, such as simulated spite, false laughter and fictitious anger, rather than fall into this horne nest! Therefore, he seized the slightest pretext to deliver his imprecations.

“A woman of the world, Mme. RhÂm-BÂhan? A woman of the world, this person who had bolted without warning and left people waiting for her, without giving them a word of apology! A woman of the world, this person who had gone away, no one knew where! A woman of the world, this person....”

“Oh please! leave me alone!” M. Raindal interrupted, unable to stand it any more. “I am not asking you to let me take you there, am I?”

“You should add that you are very wise not to do so!” Uncle Cyprien retorted, delighted with the success of his tactics.

However, apart from the little tricks which he was compelled to employ for fear of being censured, for fear of his brother and Schleifmann, he had never been happier.

He very seldom went to the Bourse; on the other hand, he now operated without any help, dealing directly with Talloire. He enjoyed the feverish pleasure of giving his own orders, following their varying fortunes and taking his profit and placing it elsewhere. Several inspirations stood behind him; there was the advice of his friend Pums, some secret intuitions of his own, and the advice of a special sheet, the “Lingot,” for which he had taken a three months’ subscription. Good luck had a share in it, and in time the total of his profits reached the neat sum of 35,000 francs.

He had no more than 75,000 francs to make now; that is to say, according to the least optimistic calculations, not more than four months to speculate.

Then! Ah, then, with these one hundred thousand francs in his pocket, Uncle Cyprien would discard his mask, break with Talloire, put a stop to the game and openly declare his profits. But until then, motus, silence, caution and mystery, in short as much hypocrisy as they wished!

Accordingly, the very choice cigars which M. Raindal smoked at the brasserie were, according to him, a present from the Marquis.

“Yes, my dear Schleifmann!” he asserted, “I found the box waiting for me when I came home.”

It must have been a huge box, a trunk almost, if one could judge from the number of havanas which it kept on supplying.

And it was the same thing about the tricycle which the ex-official had not been able to resist purchasing: perhaps Schleifmann thought that it was the result of further speculation? That was a very serious mistake! It had been paid for with the remains of his seven hundred francs profit, that tricycle.... Huh! That shut him up effectively, the moralist!... Or else Cyprien opposed a stoic reply to the inquiries of his brother, his niece, and his sister-in-law:

“Where did I find the money to buy this machine, you wish to know? With my savings on cigarettes, my good friends!... What do you suppose? When you wish one thing you have to do without another. It is extremely simple.”

He had added to these purchases that of a soft brown felt hat, the broad wings of which gave to his close-cropped head somewhat of a Cromwellian aspect. Thus he could be seen every day with his sombrero, his trousers gathered at the ankles, riding up and down the city on his tricycle, even when he had no further to go than the rue de Fleurus to see Schleifmann, the rue Vavin to get to Klapprot, or the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to see his brother.

To such short trips, however, he preferred a ride to the Bois, especially on Sundays, for there he was not troubled by his anxiety concerning the stock market.

He would go out about ten lock, following the boulevard St. Germain, the place de la Concorde, and the avenue des Champs ÉlysÉes. He wore red gloves and carried a cigar between his teeth. He pedaled with delight, bending over his front wheel, drinking in the sweet morning breeze that rushed against his cheeks. Then, as he approached the Arc de Triomphe, he straightened up, slowed down his pace and rectified his position. The avenue du Bois stretched before him, as far as he could see, the ample magnificence of its sidewalks and gardens. In the atmosphere there was already a certain heat which gave a feeling of ripeness and of summer. Under the chestnut trees near the entrance, a crowd of pretty women in light dresses chatted, standing, or sitting down with elegant gentlemen. From the distance, officers and young men approached at a canter and slowed down as they passed out of the riding track. Their horses shook themselves, stretched their necks and, if pulled back, scratched the hard ground under them. Or there would be a light-colored coach entering the avenue, pulled by four imposing horses. One could see light dresses on top of it, flowery hats, graceful women who smiled, and men with dissipated faces. Behind them in a smart herald-like attitude, his elbow lifted high and his body bent backward, a lackey would draw out of a long brass instrument raucous and triumphant appeals. One might think it the gorgeous chariot of Youth and Pleasure.

Uncle Cyprien was thrilled by this spectacle and the noise that went with it. His eyes, his lungs, and his ears drunk in the intoxication of the orgy of colors, perfumes and sounds; in spite of himself he derived from it a sensation of supreme enchantment. He rushed after the fascinating coach, caught up with it, ran alongside of it and in front of it, swelling with pride, despite the speed which caught his breath.

He passed through the gate, rode slowly under the shady trees, and stopped at a cafÉ to drink an apÉritif. It was not until the lunch hour that he returned, still by the avenue du Bois.

Sometimes on his way back he noticed among the passers-by an old gentleman with a white beard in the company of a young woman.

“Sapristi!” he thought. “My brother and Mme. RhÂm-BÂhan, very likely.... I must be careful!... I must hurry out of this.”

He affected to close his eyes as if blinded by the dust, and rushed between the carriages like one pursued. It was a superfluous precaution; an imaginary peril! M. Raindal had also taken good care to look the other way.

These Sunday morning outings were Mme. Chambannes’ own idea. She had discovered this clever way of publicly showing her friendship with the master. And although this exhibition took place only one or two Sundays a month, ZozÉ derived much gratification for her vanity from it. Smiles and sarcastic grins which she noticed as she passed only increased her satisfaction.

“You may laugh, my friends,” she thought to herself, “you may joke, but, nevertheless, you envy me very much!”

Most of the time Chambannes or her Uncle Panhias joined the couple for the sake of appearances. At other times, Gerald, either on foot or on his bicycle, came and stopped a while to exchange a few words with them.

Despite the unpleasantness of such meetings, M. Raindal was far from disliking his Sunday walks. They brought relief to his week and with the reflection of their splendor seemed to illuminate the gloomy stagnation of the days that followed until he came again for his Thursday visits.

They were like a supplementary holiday to him, a semi-monthly festival, and had it not been that he dreaded his family, he would have come every Sunday.

Besides, what documents, what precious observations he was able to accumulate there, for use in his book! These refined young men and attractive women—were they not the living representatives of the voluptuous Élite which persisted through the centuries? Did they not constitute the sacred battalion of pleasure which, at every period of history, led the chorus of elegance, issued the decrees of fashion, and dominated society by means of their charm, grace, and beauty? It needed but a simple effort of transposition for him to discern in them the coquettes and the men about town who had been the contemporaries of Rameses or King Tuthmosis!

Thus, in the course of his walks, M. Raindal took good care not to forget his severe duties as a historian. Whenever he was not looking at Mme. Chambannes, he was transposing and gathering in his memory a thousand significant details. The ladies caught his attention more than the men. He sought the eternal in their enticing gestures and their alluring glances; he did not find it there, but, nevertheless, drew satisfaction from them. He had passed several of them so often that they were clear in his memory. Whenever he recognized their silhouettes at a distance, he prepared himself to stare at them. His new gloves, which he held in his hand against the knob of his stick, spread their fingers like the stiff petals of a lotus flower. His blue cheviot coat, gray trousers, black felt hat, his button of an officer of the LÉgion onneur, and his beard, silvery and well-kept, gave him the appearance of a manufacturer grown old in the midst of wealth, of a rich conservative faithful to his sound principles.

Towards twelve lock they went back to the rue de Prony. Luncheon was a long affair. The blinds were pulled down and allowed only a yellowish light to filter through. Flowers placed on the table exhaled their harmonious fragrance. And when, moreover, Chambannes lit his cigar and ZozÉ the Turkish tobacco of her cigarette, the whole atmosphere fulfilled the overwhelming desire for a siesta which the master felt in the semi-darkness. His eyes were burnt by the sun and his legs tired by his walk; he struggled between his desire to look at his pupil a little longer and the weight of sleepiness which pulled his eyelids down. On the verge of giving way, he would rise and take his leave.

As soon as he was out, however, his heart was tormented by regret. He reproached himself sharply for his stupid drowsiness, for having wasted those sweet moments by his physical slackness. It would not have taken much to make him go back on the pretense of having forgotten something or to make an inquiry. But what inquiry? Self-consciousness and shame prevented him from going back. He went on his way with an increasing petulance. No sooner had he reached his home, in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, than his exasperated bitterness turned to hatred. What an unlovely district! What tomb-like buildings! As soon as his lease ran out, they would see! He certainly would not renew it.

Through the door of his apartment sounds came to him of conversation and laughter. ThÉrÈse was in the drawing-room with Boerzell, who still came regularly every Sunday.

Once, as he came in, M. Raindal heard the name of Dastarac pronounced.

“What!” he said, in surprise. “Are you speaking of that wretch?”

ThÉrÈse replied:

“Yes, surely, we were speaking of Dastarac.... I have told M. Boerzell all about it.... I have nothing to hide....”

“Of course not!” the master assented.

“And do you know what monsieur was telling me?... That he has turned out very badly—our Dastarac.... There is a story of very unsavory debts, embezzlement, and false securities. In short, he has been put out of the University and compelled to run away to Belgium.... M. Boerzell will explain this to you better than I could.”

The young savant told all the details of the affair.

“Well!... A pretty gentleman!...” exclaimed the young girl in a tone of burning contempt when Boerzell had finished.

“Nothing surprises me from that fellow!” declared M. Raindal. “Just the same, we owe M. Gaussine a fine debt of gratitude!”

He did not complain that day of the length of the hours. Comforting thoughts occupied him until dinner-time. So far he had never dared, under any circumstances, to sound ThÉrÈse concerning the visits of Boerzell. He stood in fear of reprisals and oft-repeated conventional inquiries concerning the Chambannes’ household. However, now that Dastarac seemed to be annihilated, crushed as it were, to the disgust of ThÉrÈse herself, why should not the sympathy which he noticed existed between the young people follow its normal course? Why should they not, from being comrades, become husband and wife? And then, besides the joy of getting his daughter married, what an opportunity for the master, and what a liberation! No one would remain as a witness of his outings but Mme. Raindal who, entirely occupied with her religious duties, was an easy-going woman totally without severity, provided her faith was not interfered with. No longer any control; no more watch set on him; no further need to invent new lies or preserve silence! M. Raindal promised himself that he would keep his eye on this affair with caution and diplomacy so as not to spoil it.

Yet an oft-recurrent anxiety seized him again after dinner. He was thinking of the summer and the forthcoming vacation, those three months which he would, doubtless, have to spend far away from Mme. Chambannes. As he recollected his impatience, his recent fears during one single month of privation, he felt a sudden sensation of choking anguish. Where would she go? To what seashore or mountain resort? How many miles away would she be? And with whom?

He had discreetly put these questions in the course of many lessons given to his little pupil. She had replied vaguely. She affected not to have made up her mind yet and to be still hesitating between Les Frettes, the seaside, Switzerland or some watering-place. She would decide on her choice at the time of a certain trip which George was shortly to make to Bosnia. She sighed as she said that. A melancholy shadow veiled the tenderness of her eyes. She turned the conversation to another subject.

His dear little friend!... Who knew but that some torment similar to his own oppressed her gentle little soul? Who knew but that she also was afflicted by the idea of the approaching separation?... M. Raindal was not so far lacking in modesty that he imagined himself alone the subject of all her possible regrets. However, he did not abandon the idea that perhaps he could claim a share of them. And he was quite right, too.

It was indeed true that Mme. Chambannes darkened whenever the master questioned her. But the baseness of Raldo was the only cause of her sorrow. This problem of their summer vacation was now debated at each of their meetings. Gerald, whose treachery had only strengthened his despotism, clung to a project of settling down at Deauville with his father for the month of August. There were invitations, “de la jolie femme,” pigeon shooting, polo playing, and racing—in short, everything called him there. Against the attraction of so many pleasures, Mme. Chambannes’ silent tears made no more impression than drops of rain on a window-pane.

“You can come there,” he told her. “I sha prevent you from coming!”

She shrugged her shoulders. Could she not foresee the torments she would have to endure at Deauville, without friends, without relations, and separated from her lover!... Could she not in advance see herself separated from Raldo and the set which he frequented by that impalpable barrier, more efficient than an iron railing, which everywhere surrounded the flock of good society? She would be exposed to the snobbish glances of those women, the insulting echoes of their joy, the spectacle of their flirtations, and the social humiliation which can only be measured at close range.... ZozÉ, for the sake of her love, and to safeguard her passion, preferred a thousand times to go into retreat and abandon it for a time. These sacrifices pierced her heart beforehand. She took to crying silently, weeping intermittent tears after holding them back too long, and, between kisses, in the middle of an embrace, they would unexpectedly wet the cheeks of her Raldo.

How could she be revenged on him, how reply to his pitiless selfishness? Ah! ZozÉ was at last beginning to find out that there is no equality in love. Otherwise, would she not have punished the recent treachery of Gerald with an immediate betrayal? That was continuing now; would she not reply with some barbarous plan, say, to choose for her holiday some place where one or the other of the men who were in love with her happened to be going? There was Dieppe, for instance, where Givonne was going, Bagneres, where Pums was to take a cure, or Dinard, where Burzig, as an authentic Englishman, had taken a little villa. None of these reprisals satisfied her. She soon convinced herself that Gerald would not be disturbed by any of these. What, therefore, was the use of her going to those fashionable resorts which, owing to their similarity, would forever carry her dreams back to Deauville? Would it not be much better for her to go and hide at Les Frettes, to seek slumber for her mind and forgetfulness in that peaceful spot, to plunge herself into the emptiness of country life till her wicked Raldo came back?

She chose this solution in the first days of July. Gerald promised that he would join her there at the beginning of September, which was the time set for Chambannes’ return from Bosnia. ZozÉ was to leave on the 20th with her Aunt and Uncle Panhias. Moreover, she would not be left altogether alone, since the abbÉ Touronde was in the neighborhood and the Herschsteins and Silberschmidts also.

“And, after all,” Gerald remarked, “a month is only four weeks.... And four weeks are very quickly over.”

Mme. Chambannes agreed. His nonchalance brought a grimace of contempt and a tremor to her lips, but her pride made her attempt to smile.

Then came the following Thursday when, without saying anything about Gerald, she informed M. Raindal of her preparations.

“Ah!” he stammered, blinking, his eyes so full of sorrow and so imploring that ZozÉ felt at once moved by it.... “Ah! you are going to Les Frettes?... Oh, very well ...!”

“What about you, dear master?” said she. “What will you do with your summer?”

“I?”

He tried to remember, but his mind would not work. At last it came back to him, and he replied:

“I?... We?... We are going to Langrune, as we do every year.... How long are you going to stay at Les Frettes?”

“Oh, a month, two months perhaps, maybe three.... It all depends on Georg business.”

“Three months!” repeated M. Raindal, whose mind had been struck by the cruelest of the three figures given. And he added with sincerity: “It pains me very much, my dear friend!”

At the same time he had seized Mme. Chambannes’ hand and greedily pressed his lips upon it. She sighed with pity. Poor pÈre Raindal! How heavy his heart must be!

She thought to herself, “Am I wicked!... Yes, I am to him what Gerald is to me, tha all!” Then, at the thought of the latte name, a fresh idea struck her. After all, why not?... It would be a very innocent revenge, a companionship and a relaxation which were as good as any. And so, with a little smile, she asked, as she drew away gently from under the lips of M. Raindal the hand which she had forgotten:

“Listen, dear master, what would you say about spending a few weeks at Les Frettes?... Would that upset your habits too much?”

M. Raindal contracted his forehead.

“I?... No! not at all!” he said, with the sensation of a comforting river bathing his heart. “But, there is my wife, and my daughter.”

“Why, they would come, too!”

“Do you think so?” the master asked doubtfully.

“Of course, unless they refused, unless they have reasons to decline.”

M. Raindal remained silent for a time. His face showed his discomfort. He rebelled against the need of denouncing his domestic tormentors. At length he exclaimed:

“Reasons! Why, they have none ... not the slightest!... Yet you know them a little.... My daughter is a savage; my wife is a bigot.... One is always on the watch in the presence of such people. Anyhow, my dear friend, I shall try, and you may guess what zeal and strength of affections....”

This eloquent peroration seemed to give him a sort of justification for kissing Zoz hand once more. The enthusiasm of his promise bolstered up his hopes throughout the evening. Besides, he had never, as yet, faced the contest straightforwardly. He had rather avoided it, postponed it by means of patience and cunning. Who knew what might not come out of an open battle, if he let loose the whole mass of those grievances and desires which he had repressed for so many months!