brother's voice stopped him, and, as one powerless to tear himself
from the door, he overheard everything that went on within, the kisses,
the offer of marriage. A feeling of horror froze him, and he went away
in a state bordering on imbecility, feeling as though there were a great
void in his brain. It was only in his own room above his mother's flat
in the Rue Richelieu that his heart broke in a storm of furious sobs.
This time there could be no doubt about the state of things; a horrible
picture of Nana in Philippe's arms kept rising before his mind's eye. It
struck him in the light of an incest. When he fancied himself calm again
the remembrance of it all would return, and in fresh access of raging
jealousy he would throw himself on the bed, biting the coverlet,
shouting infamous accusations which maddened him the more. Thus the day
passed. In order to stay shut up in his room he spoke of having a sick
headache. But the night proved more terrible still; a murder fever shook
him amid continual nightmares. Had his brother lived in the house,
he would have gone and killed him with the stab of a knife. When day
returned he tried to reason things out. It was he who ought to die, and
he determined to throw himself out of the window when an omnibus was
passing. Nevertheless, he went out toward ten o'clock and traversed
Paris, wandered up and down on the bridges and at the last moment felt
an unconquerable desire to see Nana once more. With one word, perhaps,
she would save him. And three o'clock was striking when he entered the
house in the Avenue de Villiers.

Toward noon a frightful piece of news had simply crushed Mme Hugon.
Philippe had been in prison since the evening of the previous day,
accused of having stolen twelve thousand francs from the chest of his
regiment. For the last three months he had been withdrawing small sums
therefrom in the hope of being able to repay them, while he had
covered the deficit with false money. Thanks to the negligence of the
administrative committee, this fraud had been constantly successful. The
old lady, humbled utterly by her child's crime, had at once cried out
in anger against Nana. She knew Philippe's connection with her, and her
melancholy had been the result of this miserable state of things which
kept her in Paris in constant dread of some final catastrophe. But
she had never looked forward to such shame as this, and now she blamed
herself for refusing him money, as though su