strange to say, there was not another word about Fanchon and Colin.
"M. Simare is a little discursive this evening," whispered somebody. "He is not coming to the point as quickly as usual."
In fact, he was veering away from it, with his eyes fixed on Gilberte, who listened eagerly and who repeated, at intervals:
"And then? What next?"
Thereupon, he got more and more entangled in the poetic stroll of the rector, who kept on walking and never seemed to come as far as Fanchon and Colin. And it was Gilberte who, at last, exclaimed:
"But what became of Colin and Fanchon?"
Then the old boy made a decisive gesture:
"I can't, I can't tell you. ... No, I won't tell you. ..."
Everybody rose. Everybody protested.
M. Simare took refuge in laughter:
"Well, no, I won't tell you."
"But why not?"
