"That is true," said Frederick, hurt by the tone he had assumed.
Madame Dambreuse again interposed:
"In fact, you came here one morning—about a house, I believe—a house belonging to his wife." (This meant: "She is your mistress.")
He reddened up to his ears; and M. Dambreuse, who joined them at the same moment, made this additional remark:
"You appear even to be deeply interested in them."
These last words had the effect of putting Frederick out of countenance. His confusion, which, he could not help feeling, was evident to them, was on the point of confirming their suspicions, when M. Dambreuse drew close to him, and, in a tone of great seriousness, said:
"I suppose you don't do business together?"
He protested by repeated shakes of the head, without realising the exact meaning of the capitalist, who wished to give him advice.
He felt a desire to leave. The fear of appearing faint-hearted restrained him. A servant carried away the teacups. Madame Dambreuse was talking to a diplomatist in a blue coat. Two young girls, drawing their foreheads close together, showed each other their jewellery. The others, seated in a semicircle on armchairs, kept gently moving their white faces crowned with black or fair hair. Nobody, in fact, minded them. Frederick turned on his heels; and, by a succession of long zigzags, he had almost reached the door, when, passing close to a bracket, he remarked, on the top of it, between a china vase and the wainscoting, a journal folded up in two. He drew it out a little, and read these words—The Flambard.
Who had brought it there? Cisy. Manifestly no one else. What did it matter, however? They would believe—already, perhaps, everyone believed—in the article. What was the cause of this rancour? He wrapped himself up in ironical silence. He felt like one lost in a desert. But suddenly he heard Martinon's voice: