“At this moment you are arguing against yourself, trying to convince yourself—but you do not deceive me. Listen again: Why did you leave abruptly, the night before last, when the Marquis de Farandal entered? Do you know why?”
He hesitated, very much surprised, disturbed, disarmed by this observation. Then he said slowly:
“But—I hardly know—I was tired, and then, to be candid, that imbecile makes me nervous.”
“Since when?”
“Always.”
“Pardon me, I have heard you sing his praises. You liked him once. Be quite sincere, Olivier.”
He reflected a few moments; then, choosing his words, he said:
“Yes, it is possible that the great love I have for you makes me love so much everything that belongs to you as to modify my opinion of that bore, whom I might meet occasionally with indifference, but whom I should not like to see in your house almost every day.”
“My daughter's house will not be mine. But this is sufficient. I know the uprightness of your heart. I know that you will reflect deeply on what I have just said to you. When you have reflected you will understand that I have pointed out a great danger to you, while yet there is time to escape it. And you will beware. Now let us talk of something else, will you?”
He did not insist, but he was much disturbed; he no longer knew what to think, though indeed he had need for reflection. He went away after a quarter of an hour of unimportant conversation.