“He is with Christian,” she continued.  “There, they are going to the library.  They must have just taken a long walk, for they are bespattered with mud.  If you could only see what a pretty little cap Monsieur de Gerfaut has on!”

“Truly, he will turn her head,” thought Madame de Bergenheim, with a decided feeling of anger; then she closed her eyes as if she wished to sleep.

Gerfaut had, in fact, just returned from paying his respects to the estate.  He had followed his host, who, under the pretext of showing him several picturesque sights, promenaded him, in the morning dew, through the lettuce in the kitchen garden and the underbrush in the park.  But he knew through experience that all was not roses in a lover’s path; watching in the snow, climbing walls, hiding in obscure closets, imprisonment in wardrobes, were more disagreeable incidents than a quiet tete-a-tete with a husband.

He listened, therefore, complacently enough to Bergenheim’s prolix explanations, interested himself in the planting of trees, thought the fields very green, the forests admirable, the granite rocks more beautiful than those of the Alps, went into ecstasies over the smallest vista, advised the establishment of a new mill on the river, which, being navigable for rafts, might convey lumber to all the cities on the Moselle, and thus greatly increase the value of the owner’s woods.  They fraternized like Glaucus and Diomede; Gerfaut hoping, of course, to play the part of the Greek, who, according to Homer, received in return for a common iron armor a gold one of inestimable value.  There is always such a secret mental reservation in the lover’s mind when associating with the husband of his inamorata.

When he entered the room of his wife, whose indisposition had been reported to him, Christian’s first words were: 

“This Monsieur de Gerfaut appears to be a very excellent fellow, and I shall be delighted if he will stay with us a while.  It is too bad that you are ill.  He is a good musician, as well as Marillac; you might have sung together.  Try to get better quickly and come down to dinner.”

“I can not really tell him that Monsieur de Gerfaut has loved me for more than a year,” said Madame de Bergenheim to herself.

A moment later, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil appeared, and with a prim air seated herself beside the bed.

“Perhaps you think that I am fooled by this indisposition.  I see plainly that you wish to be impolite to Monsieur de Gerfaut, for you can not endure him.  It seems to me, however, that a relative of your family ought to be treated with more respect by you, above all, when you know how much I esteem him.  This is unheard-of absurdity, and I shall end by speaking to your husband about it; we shall see if his intervention will not have more effect than mine.”

“You shall not do that, aunt,” Clemence interrupted, sitting up in bed and trying to take her aunt’s hand.