He turned his eyes upon the Abbé, at whom he had ceased to look for the last few moments, and he suddenly checked himself as he caught sight of the priest's eager face, his glistening eyes, and his ears that seemed to have grown bigger. All Mouret's bourgeois prudence then reasserted itself, and he felt that he had said too much. So he hastily added:
'But, after all, I really know nothing about it. People tell so many ridiculous stories. All I care about is to be allowed to live quietly in my own house.'
He would then have liked to leave the window, but he dared not go away so suddenly after gossiping in such an unrestrained and familiar fashion. He was beginning to think that if one of them had been having his laugh at the other, it certainly was not he.
The Abbé, for his part, was again glancing alternately at the two gardens in a calm, unconcerned manner, and did not make the slightest attempt to induce Mouret to continue talking. Mouret was already wishing, somewhat impatiently, that his wife or one of his children would call to him to come down, when he was greatly relieved by seeing Rose appear on the steps outside the house. She raised her head towards him.
'Well, sir!' she cried, 'aren't you coming at all to-day? The soup has been on the table for the last quarter of an hour!'
'All right, Rose! I'll be down directly,' he replied.
Then he made his apologies to the Abbé, and left the window. The chilly aspect of the room, which he had forgotten while his back had been turned to it, added to the confusion he felt. It seemed to him like a huge confessional-box, with its awful black crucifix, which must have heard everything he had said. When the Abbé took leave of him with a silent bow, this sudden finish of their conversation so disturbed him, that he again stepped back and, raising his eyes to the ceiling, said:
'It is in that corner, then?'
'What is?' asked the Abbé in surprise.
'The damp stain that you spoke to me about.'