By dint of thinking the matter over, Claudet came to the conclusion that perhaps Julien was beginning to repent of his generosity, and that possibly this coolness was a roundabout way of manifesting his change of feeling. This seemed to be the only plausible solution of his cousin’s behavior. “He is probably tired,” thought he, “of keeping us here at the chateau, my mother and myself.”
Claudet’s pride and self-respect revolted at this idea. He did not intend to be an incumbrance on any one, and became offended in his turn at the mute reproach which he imagined he could read in his cousin’s troubled countenance. This misconception, confirmed by the obstinate silence of both parties, and aggravated by its own continuance, at last produced a crisis.
It happened one night, after they had taken supper together, and Julien’s ill-humor had been more evident than usual. Provoked at his persistent taciturnity, and more than ever convinced that it was his presence that young de Buxieres objected to, Claudet resolved to force an explanation. Instead, therefore, of quitting the dining-room after dessert, and whistling to his dog to accompany him in his habitual promenade, the ‘grand chasserot’ remained seated, poured out a small glass of brandy, and slowly filled his pipe. Surprised to see that he was remaining at home, Julien rose and began to pace the floor, wondering what could be the reason of this unexpected change. As suspicious people are usually prone to attribute complicated motives for the most simple actions, he imagined that Claudet, becoming aware of the jealous feeling he had excited, had given up his promenade solely to mislead and avert suspicion. This idea irritated him still more, and halting suddenly in his walk, he went up to Claudet and said, brusquely:
“You are not going out, then?”
“No;” replied Claudet, “if you will permit me, I will stay and keep you company. Shall I annoy you?”
“Not in the least; only, as you are accustomed to walk every evening, I should not wish you to inconvenience yourself on my account. I am not afraid of being alone, and I am not selfish enough to deprive you of society more agreeable than mine.”
“What do you mean by that?” cried Claudet, pricking up his ears.
“Nothing,” muttered Julien, between his set teeth, “except that your fancied obligation of keeping me company ought not to prevent you missing a pleasant engagement, or keeping a rendezvous.”
“A rendezvous,” replied his interlocutor, with a forced laugh, “so you think, when I go out after supper, I go to seek amusement. A rendezvous! And with whom, if you please?”
“With your mistress, of course,” replied Julien, sarcastically, “from what you said to me, there is no scarcity here of girls inclined to be good-natured, and you have only the trouble of choosing among them. I supposed you were courting some woodman’s young daughter, or some pretty farmer girl, like—like Reine Vincart.”