to call her again, to
break in the door so as to see her once more, to convince her, to have
her all to himself. For a moment he remained motionless, chilled by the
deathlike silence of the room, from which not the faintest sound issued.
Doubtless she had thrown herself on the bed, and was stifling her cries
and her sobs in the pillow. He determined at last to go downstairs
again and close the hall door, and then he returned softly and listened,
waiting for some sound of moaning. And day was breaking when he went
disconsolately to bed, choking back his tears.

Thenceforward it was war without mercy. Pascal felt himself spied upon,
trapped, menaced. He was no longer master of his house; he had no longer
any home. The enemy was always there, forcing him to be constantly on
his guard, to lock up everything. One after the other, two vials of
nerve-substance which he had compounded were found in fragments, and he
was obliged to barricade himself in his room, where he could be heard
pounding for days together, without showing himself even at mealtime.
He no longer took Clotilde with him on his visiting days, because she
discouraged his patients by her attitude of aggressive incredulity. But
from the moment he left the house, the doctor had only one desire--to
return to it quickly, for he trembled lest he should find his locks
forced, and his drawers rifled on his return. He no longer employed
the young girl to classify and copy his notes, for several of them had
disappeared, as if they had been carried away by the wind. He did not
even venture to employ her to correct his proofs, having ascertained
that she had cut out of an article an entire passage, the sentiment of
which offended her Catholic belief. And thus she remained idle, prowling
about the rooms, and having an abundance of time to watch for an
occasion which would put in her possession the key of the large press.
This was her dream, the plan which she revolved in her mind during her
long silence, while her eyes shone and her hands burned with fever--to
have the key, to open the press, to take and burn everything in an
_auto da fe_ which would be pleasing to God. A few pages of manuscript,
forgotten by him on a corner of the table, while he went to wash his
hands and put on his coat, had disappeared, leaving behind only a little
heap of ashes in the fireplace. He could no longer leave a scrap of
paper about. He carried away everything; he hid everything. One evening,