He expected a cry. No; she came toward him.
“You wish to die! Ah, well, so do I! I have had enough of life, of shame, of falsehood, and of love—love that must be concealed with such care that I am never sure of finding it. I am ready.”
He drew back. “What folly!” he said, sullenly. “This is too much,” he added, vehemently, after a moment’s silence, and hurried to the stairs.
She followed him. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Leave me!” he said, roughly. She snatched his arm.
“Take care!” she whispered with quivering lips. “If you take one more step in that direction, I will call for assistance!”
“Call, then! Let the world know that your nephew is your lover, and your lover a thief.”
He hissed these words, in her ear, for they both spoke very low, impressed, in spite of themselves, by the silence and repose of the house. By the red light of the dying fire he appeared to her suddenly in his true colors, just what he really was, unmasked by one of those violent emotions which show the inner workings of the soul.
She saw him with his keen eyes reddened by constant examination of the cards; she thought of all she had sacrificed for this man; she remembered the care with which she had adorned herself for this interview. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by profound disgust for herself and for him, and sank, half-fainting, on the couch; and while the thief crept up the familiar staircase, she buried her face in the pillows to stifle her cries and sobs, and to prevent herself from seeing and hearing anything.
The streets of Indret were as dark as at midnight, for it was not yet six o’clock. Here and there a light from a baker’s window or a wine-shop shone dimly through the thick fog. In one of these wineshops sat Chariot and Jack.