the gloomy gaze of his deep-set eyes fell upon the
trophy hanging on the wall. Then he continued:

"These stupid worries, these ridiculous sufferings, if one endures them
too long, it simply means that one is a coward."

And he felt the butt of the revolver which he always carried in his
pocket.

Madame Nanteuil listened to him serenely, with that gentle determination
not to know anything, which had been her one talent in life.

"Another dreadful thing," she observed, "is to decide what to have to
eat. Felicie is sick of everything. There's no knowing what to get for
her."

After that, the flagging conversation languished, drawn out into
detached phrases, which had no particular meaning. Madame Nanteuil, the
servant, the coke fire, the lamp, the plate of sausage, awaited Felicie
in depressing silence. The clock struck one. Chevalier's suffering had
by this time attained the serenity of a flood tide. He was now certain.
The cabs were not so frequent and their wheels echoed more loudly along
the street. The rumbling of one of these cabs suddenly ceased outside the
house. A few seconds later he heard the slight grating of a key in the
lock, the slamming of the door, and light footsteps in the outer room.

The clock marked twenty-three minutes past one. He was suddenly full of
agitation, yet hopeful. She had come! Who could tell what she would say?
She might offer the most natural explanation of her late arrival.

Felicie entered the room, her hair in disorder, her eyes shining, her
cheeks white, her bruised lips a vivid red; she was tired, indifferent,
mute, happy and lovely, seeming to guard beneath her cloak, which she
held wrapped about her with both hands, some remnant of warmth and
voluptuous pleasure.

"I was beginning to be worried," said her mother. "Aren't you going to
unfasten your cloak?"

"I'm hungry," she replied. She dropped into a chair before the little
round table. Throwing her cloak over the back of the chair, she revealed
her slender figure in its little black schoolgirl's dress, and, resting
her left elbow on the oil-cloth table-cover, she proceeded to stick her
fork into the sliced sausage.

"Did everything go off well to-night?" asked Madame Nanteuil.

"Quite well."

"You see Chevalier has come to keep you company. It is kind of him,
isn't it?"

"Oh, Chevalier! Well, let him come to the table."

And, without replying further to her mother's questions, she began to
eat, greedy and cha