Months passed by, and spring had come again. At the house in the Rue de Choiseul, every one was talking of the approaching marriage of Octave and Madame HÉdouin.

Matters, however, were not so far advanced. Octave was again in his old place at “The Ladies' Paradise,” the business of which developed daily. Since her husband's death, Madame HÉdouin was unable to attend properly to the incessantly growing concern by herself. Her uncle, old Deleuze, nailed to his easy-chair by rheumatism, troubled himself about nothing; and, naturally, the young man, who was very active and a constant prey to the mania for doing business on a large scale, had in a little while reached a position of decisive importance in the house.

From this moment their relations became most intimate. They would shut themselves for hours together in the small room right at the back. In former days, when he had sworn to himself to seduce her, he had pursued certain tactics there, trying to take advantage of her commercial emotions, whispering figures close to her neck, watching for the days of heavy takings to profit by her enthusiasm. Now, he was simply good-natured, having no other aim but to push the business. He no longer even desired her, though he retained the recollection of her gentle quiver when waltzing with him on Berthe's wedding night. Perhaps she had loved. In any case it was best to remain as they were; for, as she justly said, the business demanded a great amount of order, and it would be impolitic to wish for things which would disturb them from morning till night.

Seated together at the narrow desk, they would often forget themselves, after going through the books and settling the orders. He would then return to his dreams of enlargement. He had sounded the owner of the next house, and had found him willing to sell. They would give notice to the second-hand dealer and to the umbrella man, and then establish a special department for silk. She, very grave, would listen, not daring to venture yet.

At length, as they sat side by side one evening examining some invoices beneath the scorching flame of a gas-jet, she said slowly:

“I have spoken to my uncle, Monsieur Octave. He consents, so we will buy the house. Only——”

He interrupted her joyfully to exclaim:

“Then, the Vabres are done for!”

She smiled, and murmured reproachfully:

“Do you detest them, then? It is not proper on your part; you are the last who should wish them ill.”

She had never spoken to him of his relations with Berthe. This sudden allusion embarrassed him immensely, without his exactly knowing why. He blushed and tried to stammer out some explanation.

“No, no, it does not concern me,” resumed she, still smiling and very calm. “Excuse me, it quite escaped me; I never intended to speak to you on the subject. You are young. So much the worse for those who are willing, is it not so? It is the place of the husbands to guard their wives when the latter are unable to guard themselves.”

He experienced a sensation of relief, on understanding she was not angry. He had often dreaded a coldness on her part if she came to know of his former connection.

“You interrupted me, Monsieur Octave,” resumed she, gravely. “I was about to add that if I purchase the next house, and thus double the importance of my business, it will be impossible for me to remain single. I shall be obliged to marry again.”

Octave sat lost in astonishment. What! she already had a husband in view, and he was in ignorance of it! He at once felt that his position there was compromised.

“My uncle,” continued she, “told me so himself. Oh, there is no hurry just yet. I have only been eight months in mourning; I shall wait till the autumn. Only, in trade one must put one's heart on one side, and consider the necessities of the situation. A man is absolutely necessary here.”

She discussed all this calmly, like a matter of business, and he gazed on her regular and healthy beauty, on her pure complexion beneath her neatly arranged black hair. Then he regretted not having, since her widowhood, renewed the effort to become her lover.

“It is always a very serious matter,” stammered he; “it requires reflection.”

No doubt, she was quite of that opinion. And she spoke of her age.

“I am already old; I am five years older than you, Monsieur Octave—”

Deeply agitated, yet thinking he understood, he interrupted her, and seizing hold of her hands, he repeated:

“Oh, madame! oh, madame!”

But she rose from her seat and released herself. Then she turned down the gas.

“No, that's enough for to-day. You have some very good ideas, and it is natural I should think of you to put them into execution. Only there will be a deal of worry; we must thoroughly study the project. I know that at heart you are very serious. Think the matter over on your side, and I will think it over on mine. That is why I have named it to you. We can talk about it again later on.”

And things remained thus for weeks. The establishment continued just the same as usual. As Madame HÉdouin always maintained her smiling serenity when in Octave's company, without an allusion to the slightest tender feeling, he affected on his side a similar peace of mind, and he ended by becoming like her, healthfully happy, placing his confidence in the logic of things. She often repeated that sensible things always happened of themselves. Therefore she was never in a hurry. The gossip which commenced to circulate respecting her intimacy with the young man did not in the least affect her. They waited.

In the Rue de Choiseul, therefore, the entire house vowed that the marriage was as good as accomplished. Octave had given up his room to lodge in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, near “The Ladies' Paradise.” He no longer visited any one—neither the Campar-dons nor the Duveyriers, who were quite shocked at the scandal of his amours. Monsieur Gourd himself, whenever he saw him, pretended not to recognize him, so as to avoid having to bow. Only Marie and Madame Juzuer, on the mornings when they met him in the neighborhood, went and stood a moment in some doorway to have a chat with him. Madame Juzeur, who passionately questioned him respecting Madame HÉdouin, tried to persuade him to call upon her, so as to be able to talk the matter over nicely; and Marie, who was greatly distressed, complaining of again being in the family way, and who told him of Jules' amazement and of her parents' terrible anger. Then, when the rumor of his marriage became more persistent, Octave was surprised to receive a low bow from Monsieur Gourd. Campardon, without exactly making friends again, gave him a cordial nod across the street, whilst Duveyrier, calling one evening to buy some gloves, showed himself most amiable. The entire house was beginning to pardon him.

However, the uneasiness caused by the adulterous act was still there, imperceptible to uneducated people, but most disagreeable to those of refined morals. Auguste obstinately persisted in not taking his wife back, and, so long as Berthe lived with her parents, the scandal would not be effaced—there would ever linger a material vestige of it.

It was Duveyrier especially who, as landlord, carried the burden of this persistent and unmerited misfortune. For some time past Clarisse had been torturing him to such a pitch that he would at times come home to his wife to weep. But the scandal of the adultery had struck him to the heart; he saw, said he, the passer-by look at his house from top to bottom—that house which his father-in-law and he had striven to decorate with every domestic virtue; and, as this sort of thing could not be allowed to last, he talked of purifying the building for his personal honor. Therefore he urged Auguste, in the name of public decency, to become reconciled with his wife. Unfortunately, Auguste resisted, backed up in his rage by ThÉophile and ValÉrie, who had definitely installed themselves at the pay-desk, and who were delighted with the existing discord. Then, as matters were going badly at Lyons, and the silk warehouse was in jeopardy for want of capital, Duveyrier conceived a practical idea. The Josserands were probably longing to get rid of their daughter; the thing to do was to offer to take her back, but only on condition that they paid the dowry of fifty thousand francs. Perhaps uncle Bachelard would yield to their entreaties and give the money. At first, Auguste violently refused to be a party to any such arrangement; even were the sum a hundred thousand francs, he would not think it sufficient. Then, becoming very anxious as his April payments drew near, he had given in to the counselor's arguments, as the latter pleaded the cause of morality and spoke merely of a good action to be done.

When they were agreed, Clotilde selected the AbbÉ Manduit for negotiator. It was a delicate matter; only a priest could interfere in it without compromising himself. It so happened that the reverend man was deeply grieved by the deplorable catastrophes which had befallen one of the most interesting households of his parish; and he had already offered his advice, his experience and his authority to put an end to a scandal at which the enemies of religion might take delight. However, when Clotilde spoke to him of the dowry, asking him to be the bearer of Auguste's conditions to the Josserands, he bowed his head, and maintained a painful silence.

“It is money due that my brother asks for,” repeated she. “It is no bargain, understand. Moreover, my brother insists upon it.”

“It is necessary, and I will go,” said the priest, at length.

The Josserands had been expecting the proposal for days. ValÉrie must have spoken of it, all the tenants were discussing the affair: were they so hard up as to be forced to keep their daughter? would they be able to obtain the fifty thousand francs to get rid of her? Since the question had reached this point, Madame Josserand had been in a constant rage. What! after having had such trouble to marry Berthe at first, she now had to marry her a second time! Everything was upset, the dowry was again demanded, all the money worries were going to commence afresh! Never before had a mother had such a task to go through twice over. And all owing to the fault of that silly fool, whose stupidity went so far as to make her forget her duty.

The house was becoming a hell upon earth; Berthe suffered a continual torture, for even her sister Hortense, furious at no longer sleeping alone, never uttered a sentence without introducing some insulting allusion into it. She was even reproached with the food she ate. When one had a husband somewhere, it was all the same very funny that one should go and share one's parents' meals, which were already too sparing. Then the young woman, in despair, would sob in corners, accusing herself of being a coward, but unable to pick up sufficient courage to go down-stairs and throw herself at Auguste's feet, and say:

“Here! beat me, I cannot be more unhappy than I am.”

Monsieur Josserand alone showed some affection for his child. But that child's faults and tears were killing him; he was dying through the cruelties of the family, with an unlimited holiday from business, spent mostly in bed. Doctor Juillerat, who attended him, talked of a decomposition of the blood: it was a dissolution of the entire system, during which each organ was attacked, one after the other.

“When you have made your father die of grief, perhaps you will be satisfied!” cried the mother.

And Berthe scarcely dared enter the invalid's room. Directly the father and daughter met, they wept together, and did each other a great deal of harm.

At length, Madame Josserand came to a grand decision: she invited uncle Bachelard, resolved to humiliate herself once more. She would have given the fifty thousand francs out of her own pocket, if she had possessed them, so as not to have to keep that big married girl, whose presence dishonored her Tuesday receptions. But she had learnt some shocking things about the uncle, and, if he did not do as she wished, she intended, once for all, to give him a bit of her mind.

During dinner, Bachelard behaved in a most abominable manner. He had arrived in an advanced state of intoxication; for, since he had left Fifi, he had fallen into the lowest depths of vice.

“Narcisse,” said Madame Josserand, “the situation is a grave one——”

And, slowly and solemnly, she explained this situation, her daughter's regrettable misfortune, the husband's revolting venality, the painful resolution she had been obliged to come to of giving the fifty thousand francs, so as to put a stop to the scandal which covered the family with shame. Then she severely continued:

“Remember what you promised, Narcisse. On the evening of the signing of the marriage contract, you again slapped your chest and swore that Berthe might rely on her uncle's affections. Well! where is this affection? the moment has arrived to display it. Monsieur Josserand, join me in showing him his duty, if your weak state of health will allow you to do so.”

In spite of his great repugnance, the father murmured, out of love for his daughter:

“It is true; you promised, Bachelard. Come, before I leave you forever, do me the pleasure of behaving as you should.”

But Berthe and Hortense, in the hope of working upon the uncle's feelings, had filled his glass once too often. He was in such a fuddled condition, that one could not even take advantage of him.

“Eh? what?” stuttered he, without having the least necessity for exaggerating his intoxication. “Never promise—Don't understand—Tell me again, ElÉonore.”

The latter recommenced her story, made weeping Berthe embrace him, besought him for the sake of her husband's health, and proved to him that in giving the fifty thousand francs, he would be fulfilling a sacred duty. Then, as he began to doze off again, without appearing to be in the least affected by the sight of the invalid or of the chamber of sickness, she abruptly broke out into the most violent language.

“Listen! Narcisse, this sort of thing has been lasting too long—you're a scoundrel! I know of all your beastly goings-on. You've just married your mistress to Gueulin, and you've given them fifty thousand francs, the very amount you promised us. Ah! it's decent; little Gueulin plays a pretty part in it all! And you, you're worse still, you take the bread from our mouth, you prostitute your fortune, yes! you prostitute it, by robbing us of money which was ours for the sake of that harlot!”

Never before had she relieved her feelings to such an extent. Hortense busied herself with her father's medicine, so as not to show her embarrassment. Monsieur Josserand, who was made far worse by this scene, tossed about on his pillow, and murmured in a trembling voice:

“I beseech you, ElÉonore, do be quiet; he will give nothing. If you wish to say such things to him, take him away that I may not hear you.”

Berthe, on her side, sobbed louder than ever, and joined her father in his entreaties.

“Enough, mamma, do as papa asks. Good heavens! how miserable I am to be the cause of all these quarrels! I would sooner leave you all, and go and die somewhere.”

Then Madame Josserand deliberately put the question to the uncle.

“Will you, yes or no, give the fifty thousand francs, so that your niece may hold her head up?”

Regularly scared, he tried to go into explanations.

“Listen a moment. I found Gueulin and Fifi together. What could I do? I was obliged to marry them. It wasn't my fault.”

“Will you, yes or no, give the dowry you promised?” repeated she furiously.

He wavered, his intoxication increased to such a pitch that he could scarcely find words to utter:

“Can't, word of honor!—Completely ruined. Otherwise, at once—Candidly you know——”

She interrupted him with a terrible gesture, and declared:

“Good, then I shall call a family council and have you declared incapable of managing your affairs. When uncles become driveling, it's time to send them to an asylum.”

At this, the uncle was seized with intense emotion. He glanced about him, and found the room had a sinister aspect with its feeble light; he looked at the dying man, who, held up by his daughters, was swallowing a spoonful of some black liquid; and his heart overflowed, he sobbed as he accused his sister of never having under stood him. Yet, he had already been made unhappy enough by Gueulin's treachery. They knew he was very sensitive, and they did wrong to invite him to dinner, to make him sad afterward. In short, in place of the fifty thousand francs, he offered all the blood in his veins.

Madame Josserand, who was quite worn out, had decided to leave him to himself, when the servant announced Doctor Juillerat and the AbbÉ Manduit. They had met on the landing, and entered together. The doctor found Monsieur Josserand much worse, he was still suffering from the shock occasioned by the scene in which he had been forced to play a part. When, on his side, the priest wished to take Madame Josserand into the drawing-room, having, he said, a communication to make to her, the latter guessed on what subject he had called, and answered majestically that she was with her family and prepared to hear everything there; the doctor himself would not be in the way, for a physician was also a confessor.

“Madame,” then said the priest, with slightly embarrassed gentleness, “you behold in the step I am taking an ardent desire to reconcile two families——”

“My dear AbbÉ Manduit, allow me to interrupt you,” said Madame Josserand. “We are deeply moved by your efforts. But never, you understand me! never will we traffic in our daughter's honor. People who have already become reconciled over this child's back! Oh! I know all; they were at daggers drawn, and now they are inseparable, reviling us from morning till night. No; such a bargain would be a disgrace—-”

“It seems to me, though, madame—” ventured the priest.

But she drowned his voice, as she superbly continued:

“See! my brother is here. You can question him. He was again saying to me only a little while ago: 'Here are the fifty thousand francs, ElÉonore; settle this miserable matter!' Well! ask him what reply I made. Get up, Narcisse. Tell the truth.” The uncle had already again fallen asleep in an arm-chair, at the end of the room. He moved, and uttered a few disconnected words. Then, as his sister insisted, he placed his hand on his heart, and stammered:

“When duty speaks, one must obey. The family comes before everything.”

“You hear him?” cried Madame Josserand, with a triumphant air. “No money; it's disgraceful! Tell those people from us that we don't die to avoid having to pay. The dowry is here; we would have given it; but, now that it's exacted as the price of our daughter, the matter becomes too disgusting. Let Auguste take Berthe back first, and then we will see later on.”

She had raised her voice, and the doctor, who was examining his patient, was obliged to make her leave off.

“Speak lower, madame!” said he; “your husband suffers.”

Then the AbbÉ Manduit, whose embarrassment had increased, went up to the bedside, and found some kind words to say. And he afterward withdrew, without again referring to the matter, hiding the confusion of having failed beneath his amiable smile, with a curl of grief and disgust on his lips. As the doctor went off in his turn, he roughly informed Madame Josserand that there was no hope for the invalid: the greatest precautions must be taken, for the least emotion might carry him off. She was thunderstruck, and returned to the dining-room, where her two daughters and their uncle had already withdrawn, to let Monsieur Josserand rest, as he seemed disposed to go to sleep.

“Berthe,” murmured she, “you have killed your father. The doctor has just said so.”

And they all three, seated round the table, gave way to their grief, whilst Uncle Bachelard, also in tears, mixed himself a glass of grog.

When Auguste learned the Josserands' answer, his rage against his wife knew no bounds, and he swore he would kick her away the day she came to ask for forgiveness. Yet, in reality, he wanted her; there was a voidness in his life; he seemed to be out of his element, amidst the new worries of his abandonment, quite as grave as those of his married life.

Besides all this, another more serious anxiety bothered him: “The Ladies' Paradise” was prospering, and already menaced his business, which decreased daily. He certainly did not regret that miserable Octave, yet he was just, and recognized that the fellow possessed very great abilities. How swimmingly everything would have gone had they only got on better together! He was seized with the most tender regrets; there were hours when, sick of his loneliness, feeling life giving way beneath him, he felt inclined to go up to the Josserands and ask them to give Berthe back to him for nothing.

Duveyrier, too, moreover, did not yield, and, more and more cut up by the moral disfavor into which such an affair threw his building, he was forever urging his brother-in-law to a reconciliation.

Each day life became more and more cruel for Duveyrier at this mistress', where he encountered all the worries of his own home again, but this time in the midst of a regular hell. The whole tribe of hawkers—the mother, the big blackguard of a brother, the two little sisters, even the invalid aunt—impudently robbed him, lived on him openly, to the point of emptying his pockets during the nights he slept there. His position was also becoming a serious one in another respect; he had got to the end of his money; he trembled at the thought of being compromised on his judicial bench; he could certainly not be removed, only, the young barristers were beginning to look at him in a saucy kind of way, which made it awkward for him to administer justice. And, when driven away by the filth and the uproar, seized with disgust of himself, he flew from the Rue d'Assas and sought refuge in the Rue de Choiseul, his wife's malignant coldness completed the crushing of him. Then he would lose his head; he would look at the Seine on his way to the court, with thoughts of jumping in some evening when a final suffering should impart to him the requisite courage.

Clotilde had noticed her husband's emotion, and felt anxious and irritated with that mistress of his who did not even make a man happy in his misconduct. But, for her part, she was greatly annoyed by a most deplorable adventure, the consequences of which quite revolutionized the house. On going up-stairs one morning for a handkerchief, ClÉmence had caught Hippolyte with Louise, and, since then, she had taken to slapping him in the kitchen for the least thing, which of course greatly interfered with the attendance. The worst was that madame could no longer close her eyes to the illicit connection existing between her maid and her footman; the other servants laughed, the scandal was reported amongst the tradespeople; it was absolutely necessary to oblige them to get married if she wished to retain them, and, as she continued to be very well satisfied with ClÉmence, she thought of nothing but this marriage.

To negotiate between lovers who were forever fighting with each other seemed such a delicate affair that she decided on employing the AbbÉ Manduit, whose moralizing character seemed specially suited to the occasion. Her servants, moreover, had been causing her a great deal of trouble for some time past. When down in the country, she had noticed the intimacy of her big, hobbledehoy Gustave with Julie; she had at one moment thought of sending the latter about her business, though regretfully, for she liked her cooking; then, after sound reflection, she had decided to keep her, preferring that the youngster should have a mistress at home, a clean girl who would never be any trouble. There is no knowing what a youth may get hold of outside, when he begins too young. She was watching them, therefore, without saying a word, and now the other two must needs worry her with their affair.

It so happened that, one morning, as Madame Duveyrier was preparing to call on the priest, ClÉmence came, and announced that the AbbÉ Manduit was taking the extreme unction up to Monsieur Josserand. After meeting him on the staircase, the maid had returned to the kitchen, exclaiming:

“I said that he would come again this year!”

And, alluding to the catastrophes which had befallen the house, she added:

“It has brought ill-luck to every one.”

This time the priest did not arrive too late, and that was an excellent sign for the future. Madame Duveyrier hastened to Saint-Roch, where she awaited the AbbÉ Manduit's return. He listened to her, and for a while maintained a sad silence; then he was unable to refuse to enlighten the maid and the footman on the immorality of their position. Moreover, the other matter would have obliged him to return shortly to the Rue de Choiseul, for poor Monsieur Josserand would certainly not last through the night; and he mentioned that he saw in this circumstance a cruel but happy opportunity for reconciling Auguste and Berthe. He would try and arrange the two affairs simultaneously. It was high time that Heaven consented to bless their efforts.

“I have prayed, madame,” said the priest. “The Almighty will triumph.”

And, indeed, that evening, at seven o'clock, Monsieur Josserand's death agony began. The entire family was there, excepting uncle Bachelard, who had been sought for in vain in all the cafÉs, and Saturnin, who was still confined at the Asile des Moulineaux. LÉon, whose marriage was most unfortunately postponed through his father's illness, displayed a dignified grief. Madame Josserand and Hortense showed some courage. Berthe alone sobbed so loudly that, so as not to affect the invalid, she had gone and stowed herself away in the kitchen, where AdÈle, taking advantage of the general confusion, was drinking some mulled wine. Monsieur Josserand expired in the quietest fashion; it was his honesty which finished him. He had passed a useless life, and he went off like a worthy man tired of the wicked things of the world, heart-broken by the quiet indifference of the only beings he had ever loved. At eight o'clock he stammered out Saturnin's name, turned his face to the wall, and expired. No one thought him dead, for all had dreaded a terrible agony. They sat patiently for some time, letting him, as they thought, sleep. When they found he was already becoming cold, Madame Josserand, in the midst of the general wailing, flew into a passion with Hortense, whom she had instructed to fetch Auguste, counting on restoring Berthe to the latter's arms amidst the great grief of her husband's last moments.

“You think of nothing!” said she, wiping her eyes.

“But, mamma,” replied the girl, in tears, “no one thought papa would go off so suddenly! You told me not to go for Auguste till nine o'clock, so as to be sure of keeping him till the end.”

The sorely afflicted family found some distraction in this quarrel.

It was another matter gone wrong; they never succeeded in anything. Fortunately, there was still the funeral to take advantage of to bring the husband and wife together.

The funeral was a pretty decent one, though it was not so grand as Monsieur Vabre's. Moreover, it did not give rise to nearly the same excitement in the house and the neighborhood, for the deceased was not a landlord; he was merely a quiet-going body, whose demise did not even disturb Madame Juzeur's slumbers.

Madame Josserand and her daughters had to be supported to their coach. LÉon, assisted by uncle Bachelard, was most attentive, whilst Auguste followed behind in an embarrassed way. He got into another coach with Duveyrier and ThÉophile. Clotilde detained the AbbÉ Manduit, who had not officiated, but who had gone to the cemetery, wishing to give the family a proof of his sympathy. The horses started on the homeward journey more gayly, and she at once asked the priest to return to the house with them, for she felt that the time was favorable. He consented.

The three mourning coaches silently drew up in the Rue de Choiseul with the relations. ThÉophile at once rejoined ValÉrie, who had remained behind to superintend a general cleaning, the warehouse being closed.

“You may pack up!” cried he, furiously. “They're all at him. I bet he'll end by begging her pardon.”

They all, indeed, felt a pressing necessity for putting an end to the unpleasantness. Misfortune should at least be good for something. Auguste, in the midst of them, understood very well what they wanted; and he was alone, without strength to resist, and filled with shame. The relations slowly walked in under the porch hung with black. No one spoke. On the stairs, the silence continued—a silence full of deep thought—whilst the crape skirts, soft and sad, ascended higher and higher. Auguste, seized with a final feeling of revolt, had taken the lead, with the intention of quickly shutting himself up in his own apartments; but, as he opened, the door, Clotilde and the priest, who had followed close behind, stopped him. Directly after them, Berthe, dressed in deep mourning, appeared on the landing, accompanied by her mother and her sister. They all three had red eyes; Madame Josserand, especially, was quite painful to behold.

“Come, my friend,” simply said the priest, overcome by tears.

And that was sufficient. Auguste gave in at once, seeing that it was better to make his peace at that honorable opportunity. His wife wept, and he wept also, as he stammered:

“Come in. We will try not to do it again.”

Then the relations kissed all around. Clotilde congratulated her brother; she had had full confidence in his heart. Madame Josserand showed a broken-hearted satisfaction, like a widow who is no longer the least affected by the most unhoped-for happiness. She associated her poor husband with the general joy.

“You are doing your duty, my dear son-in-law. He who is now in Heaven thanks you.”

“Come in,” repeated Auguste, quite upset.

But Rachel, attracted by the noise, now appeared in the anteroom; and Berthe hesitated a moment in presence of the speechless exasperation which caused the maid to turn ghastly pale. Then she sternly entered, and disappeared with her black mourning in the shadow of the apartment. Auguste followed her, and the door closed behind them.

A deep sigh of relief ascended the staircase, and filled the house with joy. The ladies pressed the hands of the priest, whose prayers had been granted. Just as Clotilde was taking him off to settle the other matter, Duveyrier, who had lagged behind with LÉon and Bachelard, arrived, walking painfully. The happy result had all to be explained to him; but he, who had been desiring it for months past, scarcely seemed to understand, a strange expression overspreading his face, and his mind a prey to a fixed idea, the torture of which quite absorbed him. Whilst the Josserands regained their apartments, he returned to his own, behind his wife and the priest. And they had just reached the ante-room, when some stifled cries caused them to start.

“Do not be uneasy, madame. It is the little lady up-stairs in labor,” Hippolyte complacently explained. “I saw Dr. Juillerat run up just now.”

Then, when he was alone, he added philosophically:

“One goes, another comes.”

Clotilde made the AbbÉ Manduit comfortable in the drawingroom, saying that she would first of all send him ClÉmence; and, to help him to while away the time, she gave him the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” which contained some really charming verses. She wished to prepare her maid for the interview. But, on entering her dressing-room, she found her husband seated on a chair.

Ever since the morning, Duveyrier had been in a state of agony. For the third time he had caught Clarisse with ThÉodore; and, as he complained, the whole family of hawkers, the mother, the brother, the sisters, had fallen upon him, and driven him down-stairs with kicks and blows; whilst Clarisse had called him a poverty-stricken wretch, and furiously threatened him with the police if he ever dared to show himself there again. It was all over; down below the doorkeeper had told him that for a week past a very rich old fellow had been anxious to provide for madame. Then, driven away, and no longer having a warm nook to nestle in, Duveyrier, after wandering about the streets, had entered an out-of-the-way shop and purchased a pocket revolver. Life was becoming too sad; he could at least put an end to it, as soon as he had found a suitable place for doing so. This selection of a quiet corner was occupying his mind, as he mechanically returned to the Rue de Choiseul to assist at Monsieur Josserand's funeral. Then, when following the corpse, he had had a sudden idea of killing himself at the cemetery; he would go to the furthest end and hide behind a tombstone. This flattered his taste for the romantic, the necessity for a tender ideal, which was wrecking his life, beneath his rigid middle-class attitude. But, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, he began to tremble, seized with an earthly chill. The spot would decidedly not do; he would have to seek elsewhere. And, having returned in a worse state than ever, entirely a prey to this one idea, he sat thinking on a chair in the dressing-room, trying to decide which was the most suitable place in the house—perhaps the bed-room, beside the bed, or simply just where he was, without moving.

“Will you have the kindness to leave me to myself?” said Clotilde to him.

He already had his hand on the revolver in his pocket.

“Why?” asked he, with an effort.

“Because I wish to be alone.”

He thought that she wanted to change her dress, and that she would not even let him see her bare arms, so repugnant he felt was he to her. For an instant he looked at her with his dim eyes, and beheld her so tall, so beautiful, with a complexion clear as marble, her hair gathered up in deep, golden tresses. Ah! if she had only consented, how everything might have been arranged! He rose stumblingly from his chair, and, opening his arms, tried to take hold of her.

“What, now?” murmured she, greatly surprised. “What's the matter with you? Not here, surely. Have you the other one no longer, then? It is going to begin again, that abomination?”

And she exhibited such utter disgust, that he drew back. Without a word, he left her, stopping in the ante-room as he hesitated for a moment; then, as there was a door facing him, the door of the closet, he pushed it open; and, without the slightest hurry, he sat down. It was a quiet spot, no one would come and disturb him there. He placed the barrel of the little revolver in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Meanwhile, Clotilde, who had been struck since the morning by his strange manner, had listened to ascertain if he were obliging her by returning to Clarisse. On learning where he had gone, by a creak peculiar to that door, she no longer bothered herself about him, and was at length in the act of ringing for ClÉmence, when the dull report of a fire-arm filled her with surprise. Whatever was it? it was just, like the noise a saloon rifle would make. She hastened to the ante-room, not daring at first to question him; then, as a strange sound issued from where he was, she called him, and, on receiving no answer, opened the door. The bolt had not even been fastened. Duveyrier, stunned by fright more than by the injury he had received, remained squatting, in a most lugubrious posture, his eyes wide open, and his face streaming with blood. He had missed his object. After grazing his jaw, the bullet had passed out again through the left cheek. And he no longer had the courage to fire a second time.

“What! that is what you come to do here?” cried Clotilde quite beside herself. “Just go and kill yourself outside!”

She was most indignant. Instead of softening her, this spectacle threw her into a supreme exasperation. She bullied him, and raised him up without the least precaution, wishing to carry him away so that no one should see him in such a place. In that closet! and to miss killing himself too! It was too much.

Then, whilst she supported him to lead him to the bed-room, Duveyrier, who had his throat filled with blood, and whose teeth were dropping out, stuttered between two rattles:

“You never loved me!”