Madame de Bonmont did not reply, and her silence was prolonged by that of M. de Terremondre and Baron Wallstein.
“I believe,” said Madame de Bonmont, listening intently to the distant sounds of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of wheels, “that Ernest is coming.”
At this point a servant came in with the newspapers. M. de Terremondre took one of them and glanced casually at it.
“Still the Affair!” he murmured. “More professors protesting! Why will they insist on meddling with what does not concern them? It is only right that the Army should settle its own affairs, as it always has done. Moreover, it seems to me that when seven officers——”
“Of course,” replied the Abbé, “when seven officers have given judgment, I will even go so far as to say that it is unseemly to raise any doubts as to their decision. It is highly indecorous and incongruous!”
“Are you speaking of the Affair?” asked Madame de Bonmont. “Well, I can assure you that Dreyfus is guilty. I have it from an authentic source.”
She blushed as she spoke, for it was Raoul to whom she had referred.
Ernest entered the drawing-room, sulky and morose.
“Good evening, mother! Good evening, M. l’Abbé!”
He took very little notice of the others, but threw himself upon the cushions of a couch which stood just beneath the portrait of his father, whom he much resembled. He was the Baron over again, but shrunken, diminished, and sickly, the wild boar grown small, pale, and flabby. The likeness, however, was striking, and M. de Terremondre drew attention to it: