After about fifteen minutes Marcel spoke again.
"There is no need of your going there," he said. "The documents are in my office; it is simply a matter of tearing them up, and I will not allow you to make an absurd scene at my aunt's, I warn you. She is exceedingly anxious, for Julien is very ill, as I told you."
"And you lied like a dog!" retorted Monsieur Antoine.
As he spoke he pointed to a hired cabriolet which was just passing them. Julien, pale and downcast, with contracted brow and preoccupied, determined air, was in the vehicle, and passed close to them without seeing them. He had received Julie's note; he had forced himself to rise, and, as he wished to ask Marcel some questions before keeping the appointment, he was driving in season to Paris.
"If he is the one you want to speak to," said Marcel, "let us turn back; I will wager that he is going to see me!"
"He is not the one I want to speak to," rejoined Monsieur Antoine, satirically, "since he is dying."
"Did you think he looked well?" demanded Marcel.
The uncle relapsed into his sullen silence. They went on toward Sèvres. Did he himself know what he was going to do there? Let us confess the truth—he had absolutely no idea. He was conscious that his mind was in great confusion, and his meditation was simply a sort of painful uneasiness concerning the discomfort he felt.
"With all this," he thought, "I shall be the sickest of the three if I don't look out. Anger is an excellent thing; it keeps one alive, it helps out old age, and it is all up with an old man who allows himself to be led by the nose; but we shouldn't take too big a dose of it at once, and it would be well for me to cool off a little."
Thereupon, with a strength of will which would have made him a remarkable man if he had had better instincts or better guidance, he determined to take a nap, and slept quietly until the carriage entered the streets of Sèvres.