at last replied, in a
very faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunate
woman who had fallen asleep forever. "I know what I have done; I shall
never forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. Yet
I adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her too
much, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madness
came upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned and
dissuaded her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but as
for me, it is all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself."

All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in this
confession of his weakness. And his voice never gave sign of animation,
never rose in a louder tone from the depths of his annihilated being,
which would evermore be void. "She wished to be gay, and rich, and
happy," he continued. "It was so legitimate a wish on her part, she
was so intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, to
content her tastes and satisfy her ambition. You know our new flat.
We spent far too much money on it. Then came that story of the Credit
National and the hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when the
trouble came, and I saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounce
all her dreams, I became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do her
will. We thought that our only means of escaping from everlasting penury
and drudgery was to evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there."

Morange's lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to
violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent
Mathieu's heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine.

"Ah, yes!" said the other, "I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her
mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won't you?
Tell her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful
misfortune. And don't worry me, I beg you, don't take me away. I promise
you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her.
Nobody will even hear me; I shan't disturb any one."

Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases
as he sank into a dream of his wrecked life.

Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him
there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was
indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and
to breathe the ke