“Ah,” said M. de Rênal, lifting up his eyebrows inordinately. “What, did Julien tell you that?”
“Not exactly, he always talked of the vocation which calls him to the holy ministry, but believe me, the first vocation for those lower-class people is getting their bread and butter. He gave me to understand that he was quite aware of her secret visits.”
“And I—I was ignorant,” exclaimed M. de Rênal, growing as angry as before and accentuating his words. “Things take place in my house which I know nothing about.... What! has there been anything between Elisa and Valenod?”
“Oh, that’s old history, my dear,” said Madame de Rênal with a smile, “and perhaps no harm has come of it. It was at the time when your good friend Valenod would not have minded their thinking at Verrières that a perfectly platonic little affection was growing up between him and me.”
“I had that idea once myself,” exclaimed M. de Rênal, furiously striking his head as he progressed from discovery to discovery, “and you told me nothing about it.”
“Should one set two friends by the ears on account of a little fit of vanity on the part of our dear director? What society woman has not had addressed to her a few letters which were both extremely witty and even a little gallant?”
“He has written to you?”
“He writes a great deal.”
“Show me those letters at once, I order you,” and M. de Rênal pulled himself up to his six feet.
“I will do nothing of the kind,” he was answered with a sweetness verging on indifference. “I will show you them one day when you are in a better frame of mind.”