Despite this remark, there was something about the Abbé that day which betokened unusual absent-mindedness. He ate quickly, with the haste of a man who is bored by a long stay at table, and lunches standing when at home. And, having finished, himself, he would wait the convenience of the others, plunged in deep thought, and simply smiling in reply to the questions put to him. At every moment he cast on his brother a look in which encouragement and uneasiness were mingled. Nor did Monsieur Rambaud seen possessed of his wonted tranquillity that evening; but his agitation manifested itself in a craving to talk and fidget on his chair, which seemed rather inconsistent with his quiet disposition. When the Brussels sprouts had disappeared, there was a delay in the appearance of the dessert, and a spell of silence ensued. Out of doors the rain was beating down with still greater force, rattling noisily against the house. The dining-room was rather close, and it suddenly dawned on Hélène that there was something strange in the air—that the two brothers had some worry of which they did not care to speak. She looked at them anxiously, and at last spoke: “Dear, dear! What dreadful rain! isn’t it? It seems to be influencing both of you, for you look out of sorts.” They protested, however, that such was not the case, doing their utmost to clear her mind of the notion. And as Rosalie now made her appearance with an immense dish, Monsieur Rambaud exclaimed, as though to veil his emotion: “What did I say! Still another surprise!” The surprise of the day was some vanilla cream, one of the cook’s triumphs. And thus it was a sight to see her broad, silent grin, as she deposited her burden on the table. Jeanne shouted and clapped her hands. “I knew it, I knew it! I saw the eggs in the kitchen!” “But I have no more appetite,” declared Monsieur Rambaud, with a look of despair. “I could not eat any of it!” Thereupon Rosalie became grave, full of suppressed wrath. With a dignified air, she remarked: “Oh, indeed! A cream which I made specially for you! Well, well! just try not to eat any of it—yes, try!” He had to give in and accept a large helping of the cream. Meanwhile the Abbé remained thoughtful. He rolled up his napkin and rose before the dessert had come to an end, as was frequently his custom. For a little while he walked about, with his head hanging down; and when Hélène in her turn quitted the table, he cast at Monsieur Rambaud a look of intelligence, and led the young woman into the bedroom.[*] The door being left open behind them, they could almost immediately afterwards be heard conversing together, though the words which they slowly exchanged were indistinguishable.