good of you, very good of you. All the more so because you’ve rather lost the habit of coming to see me.”
“Well, what could I do? There are certain kinds of pressure you can’t resist, and as my wife seemed to be annoyed with you …”
“Damn it … seemed to be annoyed … she went farther than that, seeing that she turned me out of the house.”
“But what was it all about? I myself have never known that.”
“Oh, about nothing! … a silly affair … a discussion in which I failed to agree with her.”
“But what was the discussion about?”
“About a lady whom you may know by name; Mme. Boutin, a friend of mine.”
“Oh, yes! Well, I believe that my wife is tired of it now, for she spoke to me about you this morning in the friendliest possible terms.”
Tancret started violently, and seemed so astounded that for some instants he found nothing to say. Then he replied:
“She spoke to you about me … in friendly terms?”
“Of course.”
“You’re sure of it?”
“Bless my soul … I’m not given to daydreams.”
“Well?”
“Well … as I was coming to Paris, I thought it would please you to hear about it.”
“Of course … of course.”
Bondel seemed to hesitate; then, after a brief silence:
“I even had an idea … an original idea.”
“What was it?”
“To take you back with me to dine at the house.”
At this suggestion, Tancret, who was temperamentally cautious, seemed uneasy.
“Oh, do you think … is it possible … aren’t we letting ourselves in for … for … for recriminations?”
“Not at all … not at all.”
“It’s just that … don’t you know … she’s inclined to bear a grudge, is Mme. Bondel.”
“Yes, but I assure you that she’s tired of it now. I am quite convinced that it would give her great pleasure to see you like that, unexpectedly.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Well, come along, old man. I’m only too delighted. Believe me, this upset has been causing me great unhappiness.”
And they set off towards the Gare Saint-Lazare arm in arm.
The journey was made in silence. Both seemed lost in profound reveries. Seated facing one another in the carriage, they looked at each other without talking, each observing that the other was pale.
Then they left the train and took each other by the arm again, as if they were standing together against a common danger. After a few minutes’ walking, they halted, both a little out of breath, before the Bondel house.
Bondel ushered his friend in, followed him into the drawing room, summoned the maid, and said to her:
“Is your mistress at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ask her to come down at once, please.”
They sank into two armchairs and waited, filled now by a mutual longing to get away as quickly as ever possible, before the dreaded personage appeared in the doorway.
A familiar tread, a firm tread, was descending the steps of the staircase. A hand touched the lock, and the eyes of both men saw the copper handle turning. Then the door opened wide, and Mme. Bondel stood still, with the intention of seeing who was there before coming in.
Then she stared, blushed, trembled, recoiled half a step, and then remained motionless with flaming cheeks and hands pressed against the wall at each side of the doorway.
Tancret, now as pale as if he were going to faint, rose, dropping his hat, which rolled across the floor. He stammered:
“Heavens. … Madame. … It’s I. … I thought … I ventured … I was so unhappy …”
As she did not reply, he went on:
“Have you forgiven me … at last?”
At that, abruptly, carried away by some inward impulse, she walked towards him with both hands outstretched; and when he had taken, clasped and held her two hands, she said in a small voice, a moved, faltering voice that her husband had never heard:
“Oh, my dear! I am so glad.”
And Bondel, who was watching them, felt his whole body grow icy cold, as if he had been drenched in a cold bath.
Alexander
As usual that day at four o’clock Alexander brought the three-wheeled invalid carriage in which by the doctor’s orders he took his old, helpless mistress out until six o’clock every day, round to the front of Maramballe’s little house.
When he had propped the light carriage against the step at the exact spot from which he could easily help the stout old lady he returned to the house and an angry voice was heard—the hoarse voice of a former soldier—using bad language: it was the voice of the master of the house, a retired infantry captain, Joseph Maramballe.
Then followed a noise of slammed doors, upset chairs and hasty footsteps, then nothing more; shortly after Alexander appeared in the doorway holding up Mme. Maramballe with all his strength, for the walk downstairs had quite exhausted the old lady. When, after a certain amount of trouble, she had been settled in the wheeled chair, Alexander took hold of the handle at the back and started off in the direction of the riverbank.
This was their usual way of crossing the small town, through which they passed amid respectful greetings that were certainly meant for the servant as well as for the old lady, for if she was loved and looked up to by everyone, he, the old trooper with his white, patriarchal beard, was considered the model servant.
The July sun shone down into the streets with cruel violence, bathing the low houses in a light made sad by its power and crudity. Dogs were asleep on the pavement in the line of shadow thrown by the walls, and Alexander, rather out of breath, hurried to reach the avenue that led to the bank of the river, as quickly as possible.
Mme. Maramballe dozed under her white parasol, the point of which swayed to and fro against the man’s impassive face.
As they reached the avenue of limes, whose shade thoroughly woke her up, she said good-naturedly:
“Not so fast, my good fellow, you will kill yourself in this heat.”
It never occurred to the kindhearted woman, in her candid selfishness, that she now wanted to go slower because she had reached the shelter of the leaves.
Near the road
