I have often noticed this phenomenon; people meeting to “have it out” usually begin by saying nothing at all.
M. Mouillard offered his arm to Jeanne, to escort her to the dining-room. Jeanne was in high spirits. She asked him question after question about Bourges, its dances, fashions, manufactures, even about the procedure of its courts.
“I am sure you know that well, uncle,” she said.
“Uncle” smiled at each question, his face illumined with a glow like that upon a chimney-piece when someone is blowing the fire. He answered her questions, but presently fell into a state of dejection, which even his desire to do honor to his guests could not entirely conceal. His thoughts betrayed themselves in the looks he kept casting upon me, no longer of anger, but of suffering, almost pleading, affection.
M. Charnot, who was rather tired, and also absorbed in Madeleine’s feats of cookery, cast disjointed remarks and ejaculations into the gaps in the conversation.
I knew my uncle well enough to feel sure that the end of the dinner would be quite unlike the beginning.
I was right. During dessert, just as the Academician was singing the praises of a native delicacy, ‘la forestine’, my uncle, who had been revolving a few drops of some notable growth of Medoc in his glass for the last minute or two, stopped suddenly, and put down his glass on the table.
“My dear Monsieur Charnot,” said he, “I have a painful confession to make to you.”
“Eh? What? My dear friend, if it’s painful to you, don’t make it.”
“Fabien,” my uncle went on, “has behaved badly to me on certain occasions. But I say no more of it. His faults are forgotten. But I have not behaved to him altogether as I should.”