Sophie stared at M. Pascal in amazement. Her womanly sensitivity was deeply shocked, and her instinct told her that a man who could talk as M. Pascal had done was not the man of good feeling and rectitude that she had believed him to be.
At this moment, too, Dutertre rose from his chair, showing in his countenance the perplexity which agitated his mind; for the first time, his wife observed the alteration of his expression, and exclaimed as she advanced to meet him:
"My God! Charles, how pale you are! Are you in pain?"
"No, Sophie, nothing is the matter with me,—only a slight headache."
"But I tell you something else is the matter. This pallor is not natural. Oh, M. Pascal, do look at Charles!"
"Really, my good Dutertre, you do not appear at your ease."
"Nothing is the matter, sir," replied Dutertre, with an icy tone which increased Sophie's undefined fear.
She looked in silence, first at her husband, and then at M. Pascal, trying to discern the cause of the change that she saw and feared.
"Well, my dear Dutertre," said M. Pascal, "you have heard our conversation; pray join me in trying to make your dear and excellent wife comprehend that mademoiselle, notwithstanding her foolish, childish love, could not find a better party than myself."
"I share my wife's opinion on this subject, monsieur."