“Monsieur is awkward to-day,” said Madame Destival, rising from the table with a gesture of impatience; “I believe that we shall do well to go up to the salon.”
At that moment the clouds broke, the rain fell in torrents, and the fields assumed a novel aspect. Everybody rose; the petite-maîtresse leaned heavily on Auguste’s arm, because the storm had taken away all her strength. Monsieur de la Thomassinière, desirous to play the scholar, because he thought that his companions were no more learned than he, went to one of the windows and declared that the storm would not be consequential because the atmosphere was very beautiful at sunset.
Auguste could not restrain a slight laugh, which caused the trembling Athalie to press his arm all the harder. Monsieur Destival, who had recovered his spirits in some measure since the rain began, which made the storm much less dangerous, executed a half wheel to the left of the company, and charged up the stairs at the double-quick. Monin was left alone in the dining-room, folding his napkin as a matter of habit, and muttering as he listened to the rain:
“It’s coming down hard, and I haven’t any umbrella, and they’ve made a hole in the top of my cap! so what am I going to do?”
Having taken snuff two or three times, our friend decided to address Julie, who had just passed through the room. He followed her, calling after her:
“I beg pardon, mademoiselle, but couldn’t you——”
As Julie did not reply, Monin followed her to the kitchen, where Bertrand was drinking with Baptiste and Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s three tall footmen, who did not agree with their master that the beaune was too new.
“Could you lend me an umbrella?” asked Monin.
“We haven’t any here,” Julie replied curtly.
“Nonsense! an umbrella!” said Bertrand, in whom the beaune had already aroused a tendency to talk. “As if a man should use such a thing! Is that what I taught you this morning—to handle an umbrella?”