They were all waiting in the drawing-room, when Théophile abruptly burst in, his dress-coat askew, his white cravat tied like a piece of cord, and without his hat. His face, with its few hairs and bad teeth, was livid; his limbs, like an ailing child’s, were trembling with fury.
“What is the matter with you?” asked his sister, in amazement.
“The matter is—the matter is——”
But a fit of coughing interrupted him, and he stood there for a minute, choking, spitting in his handkerchief, and enraged at being unable to give vent to his anger. Valérie looked at him, confused, and warned by a sort of instinct. At length, he shook his fist at her, without even noticing the bride and the other ladies around him.
“Yes, whilst looking everywhere for my necktie, I found a letter in front of the wardrobe.”
He crumpled a piece of paper between his febrile fingers. His wife had turned pale. She realized the situation; and, to avoid the scandal of a public explanation, she passed into the room that Berthe had just left.
“Ah! well,” said she, simply, “I prefer to leave if he is going mad.”
“Let me alone!” cried Théophile to Madame Duveyrier, who was trying to quiet him. “I intend to confound her. This time I have proof, and there is no doubt, oh, no! It shall not pass off like that, for I know him——”
His sister had seized him by the arm, and squeezing it, shook him authoritatively.
“Hold your tongue! don’t you see where you are? This is not the proper time, understand!”