Twenty-four
hours with La Binet had been more than enough for a man of his
fastidious and discerning taste. He looked back upon the episode
with nausea - the inevitable psychological reaction - marvelling
at himself that until yesterday he should have found her so
desirable, and cursing himself that for the sake of that ephemeral
and worthless gratification he should seriously have imperilled his
chances of winning Mademoiselle de Kercadiou to wife. There is,
after all, nothing very extraordinary in his frame of mind, so that
I need not elaborate it further. It resulted from the conflict
between the beast and the angel that go to make up the composition
of every man.
The Chevalier de Chabrillane - who in reality occupied towards the
Marquis a position akin to that of gentleman-in-waiting - sat
opposite to him in the enormous travelling berline. A small folding
table had been erected between them, and the Chevalier suggested
piquet. But M. le Marquis was in no humour for cards. His thoughts
absorbed him. As they were rattling over the cobbles of Nantes'
streets, he remembered a promise to La Binet to witness her
performance that night in "The Faithless Lover.
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