and mouth in a heartbreaking yet
ridiculous manner, like a sponge which one squeezes. He was coughing,
spitting and blowing his nose in the chalk rag, wiping his eyes and
sneezing; then the tears would again begin to flow down the wrinkles
on his face and he would make a strange gurgling noise in his throat.
I felt bewildered, ashamed; I wanted to run away, and I no longer knew
what to say, do, or attempt.

Suddenly Madame Chantal's voice sounded on the stairs. "Haven't you men
almost finished smoking your cigars?"

I opened the door and cried: "Yes, madame, we are coming right down."

Then I rushed to her husband, and, seizing him by the shoulders, I
cried: "Monsieur Chantal, my friend Chantal, listen to me; your wife is
calling; pull yourself together, we must go downstairs."

He stammered: "Yes--yes--I am coming--poor girl! I am coming--tell her
that I am coming."

He began conscientiously to wipe his face on the cloth which, for the
last two or three years, had been used for marking off the chalk from
the slate; then he appeared, half white and half red, his forehead,
nose, cheeks and chin covered with chalk, and his eyes swollen, still
full of tears.

I caught him by the hands and dragged him into his bedroom, muttering:
"I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, Monsieur Chantal, for having
caused you such sorrow--but--I did not know--you--you understand."

He squeezed my hand, saying: "Yes--yes--there are difficult moments."

Then he plunged his face into a bowl of water. When he emerged from it
he did not yet seem to me to be presentable; but I thought of a little
stratagem. As he was growing worried, looking at himself in the mirror,
I said to him: "All you have to do is to say that a little dust flew
into your eye and you can cry before everybody to your heart's content."

He went downstairs rubbing his eyes with his handkerchief. All were
worried; each one wished to look for the speck, which could not
be found; and stories were told of similar cases where it had been
necessary to call in a physician.

I went over to Mademoiselle Pearl and watched her, tormented by an
ardent curiosity, which was turning to positive suffering. She must
indeed have been pretty, with her gentle, calm eyes, so large that it
looked as though she never closed them like other mortals. Her gown
was a little ridiculous, a real old maid's gown, which was unbecoming
without appearing clumsy.

It seemed to me as though I were loo