Claude was on the point of inquiring about their comrades in Paris, but he kept silent. Not even a word was said respecting Christine, and he was reluctantly deciding to quit Dubuche, holding out his hand to take leave, when, in spite of himself, this question fell from his quivering lips:
‘And is Sandoz all right?’
‘Yes, he’s pretty well. I seldom see him. He spoke to me about you last month. He is still grieved at your having shown us the door.’
‘But I didn’t show you the door,’ exclaimed Claude, beside himself. ‘Come and see me, I beg of you. I shall be so glad!’
‘All right, then, we’ll come. I’ll tell him to come, I give you my word—good-bye, old man, good-bye; I’m in a hurry.’
And Dubuche went off towards La Richaudière, whilst Claude watched his figure dwindle as he crossed the cultivated plain, until nothing remained but the shiny silk of his hat and the black spot of his coat. The young man returned home slowly, his heart bursting with nameless sadness. However, he said nothing about this meeting to Christine.
A week later she had gone to Faucheur’s to buy a pound of vermicelli, and was lingering on her way back, gossiping with a neighbour, with her child on her arm, when a gentleman who alighted from the ferry-boat approached and asked her:
‘Does not Monsieur Claude Lantier live near here?’
She was taken aback, and simply answered:
‘Yes, monsieur; if you’ll kindly follow me—’