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 d'Honneur,_ 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 o'clock 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.