Then there was another interval of silence. In the dining-room, the window of which opened on to the terrace, old Rose had just begun to lay the table with much angry clattering of crockery and plate. She seemed to be in a very bad temper, and banged the chairs about while breaking into snatches of grumbling and growling. At last she went to the street door, and, craning out her head, reconnoitred the square in front of the Sub-Prefecture. After some minutes' waiting, she came to the terrace-steps and cried:
'Monsieur Mouret isn't coming home to dinner, then?'
'Yes, Rose, wait a little longer,' Marthe replied quietly.
'Everything is getting burned to cinders! There's no sense in it all. When master goes off on those rounds he ought to give us notice! Well, it's all the same to me; but your dinner will be quite uneatable.'
'Ah! do you really think so, Rose?' asked a quiet voice just behind her. 'We will eat it, notwithstanding.'
It was Mouret who had just arrived.[2] Rose turned round, looked her master in the face, and seemed on the point of breaking into some angry exclamation; but at the sight of his unruffled countenance, in which twinkled an expression of merry banter, she could not find a word to say, and so she retired. Mouret made his way to the terrace, where he paced about without sitting down. He just tapped Désirée lightly on the cheek with the tips of his fingers, and the girl greeted him with a responsive smile. Marthe raised her eyes, and when she had glanced at her husband she began to fold up her work.
'Aren't you tired?' asked Octave, looking at his father's boots, which were white with dust.
'Yes, indeed, a little,' Mouret replied, without, however, saying anything more about the long journey which he had just made on foot.
Then in the middle of the garden he caught sight of a spade and a rake, which the children had forgotten there.
'Why are the tools not put away?' he cried. 'I have spoken about it a hundred times. If it should come on to rain they would be completely rusted and spoilt.'
He said no more on the subject, but stepped down into the garden, picked up the spade and rake himself, and put them carefully away inside the little conservatory. As he came up to the terrace again his eyes searched every corner of the walks to see if things were tidy there.
'Are you learning your lessons?' he asked, as he passed Serge, who was still poring over his book.
'No, father,' the boy replied; 'this is a book that Abbé Bourrette has lent me. It is an account of the missions in China.'
Mouret stopped short in front of his wife.
'By the way,' said he, 'has anyone been here?'
'No, no one, my dear,' replied Marthe with an appearance of surprise.
He seemed on the point of saying something further, but appeared to change his mind, and continued pacing up and down in silence. Then, going to the steps, he cried out:
'Well, Rose, what about this dinner of yours which is getting burnt to cinders?'
'Oh, indeed! there is nothing ready for you now!' shouted the cook in an angry voice from the other end of the passage. 'Everything is cold. You will have to wait, sir.'
Mouret smiled in silence and winked with his left eye, as he glanced at his wife and children. He seemed to be very much amused by Rose's anger. Then he occupied himself in examining his neighbour's fruit-trees.
'It is surprising what splendid pears Monsieur Rastoil has got this year,' he remarked.
Marthe, who had appeared a little uneasy for the last few minutes, seemed as though she wanted to say something. At last she made up her mind to speak, and timidly inquired:
'Were you expecting someone to-day, my dear?'
'Yes and no,' he replied, beginning to pace the terrace again.
'Perhaps you have let the second floor?'
'Yes, indeed, I have let it.'
Then, as the silence became a little embarrassing, he added, in his quiet way:
'This morning, before starting for Les Tulettes, I went up to see Abbé Bourrette. He was very pressing, and so I agreed to his proposal. I know it won't please you; but, if you will only think the matter over for a little, you will see that you are wrong, my dear. The second floor was of no use to us, and it was only going to ruin. The fruit that we store in the rooms there brings on dampness which makes the paper fall from the walls. By the way, now that I think of it, don't forget to remove the fruit the first thing to-morrow. Our tenant may arrive at any moment.'
'We were so free and comfortable, all alone in our own house,' Marthe ventured to say, in a low tone.
'Oh, well!' replied Mouret, 'we shan't find a priest in our way. He will keep to himself, and we shall keep to ourselves. Those black-gowned gentlemen hide themselves when they want to swallow even a glass of water. You know that I'm not very partial to them myself. A set of lazybones for the most part! And yet what chiefly decided me to let the floor was that I had found a priest for a tenant. One is quite sure of one's money with them, and they are so quiet that one can't even hear them go in and out.'
Marthe still appeared distressed. She looked round her at the happy home basking in the sun's farewell, at the garden which was now growing greyer with shadows, and at her three children. And she thought of all the happiness which this little spot held for her.
'And do you know anything about this priest?'she asked.
'No; but Abbé Bourrette has taken the floor in his own name, and that is quite sufficient. Abbé Bourrette is an honourable man. I know that our tenant is called Faujas, Abbé Faujas, and that he comes from the diocese of Besançon. He didn't get on very well with his vicar there, and so he has been appointed curate here at Saint-Saturnin's. Perhaps he knows our bishop, Monseigneur Rousselot. But all this is no business of ours, you know; and it is to Abbé Bourrette that I am trusting in the whole matter.'
Marthe, however, did not seem to share her husband's confidence, but continued to stand out against him, a thing which seldom happened.
'You are right,' she said, after a moment's silence, 'Abbé Bourrette is a worthy man. But I recollect that when he came to look at the rooms he told me that he did not know the name of the person on whose behalf he was commissioned to rent them. It was one of those commissions which are undertaken by priests in one town for those in another. I really think that you ought to write to Besançon and make some inquiries as to what sort of a person it is that you are about to introduce into your house.'
Mouret was anxious to avoid losing his temper; he smiled complacently.
'Well, it isn't the devil, anyhow. Why, you're trembling all over! I didn't think you were so superstitious. You surely don't believe that priests bring ill luck, as folks say. Neither, of course, do they bring good luck. They are just like other men. But, when we get this Abbé here, you'll see if I'm afraid of his cassock!'
'No, I'm not superstitious; you know that quite well,' replied Marthe. 'I only feel unhappy about it, that's all.'
He took his stand in front of her, and interrupted her with a sharp motion of his hand.
