'It is very surprising. But where was I at the time?'
'I think you were in the garden, sir, looking at the grapes in the arbour.'
This put Mouret into a very bad temper. He began to inveigh against priests. They were a set of mystery-mongers, a parcel of underhand schemers, with whom the devil himself would be at a loss. They affected such ridiculous prudery that no one had ever seen a priest wash his face. And then he wound up by expressing his sorrow that he had ever let his rooms to this Abbé, about whom he knew nothing at all.
'It is all your fault!' he exclaimed to his wife, as he got up from table.
Marthe was about to protest and remind him of their discussion on the previous day, but she raised her eyes and simply looked at him, saying nothing. Mouret, contrary to his usual custom, resolved to remain at home. He pottered up and down between the dining-room and the garden, poking about everywhere, pretending that nothing was in its place and that the house simply invited thieves. Then he got indignant with Serge and Octave, who had set off for the college, he said, quite half an hour too soon.
'Isn't father going out?' Désirée whispered in her mother's ear. 'He will worry us to death if he stays at home.'
Marthe hushed her. At last Mouret began to speak of a piece of business which he declared he must finish off during the day. And then he complained that he had never a moment to himself, and could never get a day's rest at home when he felt he wanted it. Finally he went away, quite distressed that he could not remain and see what happened.
When he returned in the evening he was all on fire with curiosity.
'Well, what about the Abbé?' he asked, without even giving himself time to take off his hat.