On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu, without, however, appearing to recognize him. He had remained on his chair silently watching the scene—first an inspection as of cattle at a market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother's milk. And by degrees pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passed through him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking child, of which she promised to rid the nurse. And once more he pictured her with her five companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each, like some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It was the pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolen from Paris. And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder was threatened; for, however careful one may be, the employer's child often dies from another's milk, and the nurse's child, carried back into the country like a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap.
But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion drove away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchêne works, came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, the accountant, was returning to his work after déjeuner, accompanied by his daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow of Valérie's funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that he had abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big fortune elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave his flat, though it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive. But then his wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to remain in them. And, moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with all comfort. All the affection of his weak heart was now given to that child, whose resemblance to her mother distracted him. He would gaze at her for hours with tears in his eyes. A great passion was springing up within him; his one dream now was to dower her richly and seek happiness through her, if indeed he could ever be happy again. Thus feelings of avarice had come to him; he economized with respect to everything that was not connected with her, and secretly sought supplementary work in order that he might give her more luxury and increase her dower. Without her he would have died of weariness and self-abandonment. She was indeed fast becoming his very life.
"Why, yes," said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which Boutan put to her, "it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn't stir."
Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as he was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of a collection of his wife's portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing her at all ages, which he had hung on the walls.
"It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange," said Boutan, "you do right in taking a stroll."
The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the sun as if he had not previously noticed it. "That is true, it is fine weather—and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little."
Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant. To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned, and whom he accused himself of having killed.
"Papa won't believe that one never feels ennui at my age," said the girl gayly. "Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be a little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me out."
Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the curb. A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her.
"Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here."