“To-morrow morning, you will be sure to pay it to-morrow morning, won’t you?” implored she, trying to escape.
But he again clasped her in his arms.
“Stay!”
She remained. The clock slowly struck the hours in the voluptuous warmth of the room; and, at each sound of the bell, he begged her so tenderly to stay, that her strength seemed to desert her and she yielded to his entreaties. Then, toward four o’clock, just as she had at length determined to go, they both dropped off to sleep locked in each other’s arms. When they again opened their eyes, the bright daylight was entering at the window, it was nine o’clock. Berthe uttered a cry.
“Good heavens! I’m lost!”
Then ensued a moment of confusion. With her eyes half closed with sleep and fatigue, feeling vaguely about with her hands scarcely able to distinguish anything, she gave vent to stifled exclamations of regret. He, seized with a similar despair, had thrown himself before the door, to prevent her from going out at such an hour. Was she mad? people might meet her on the stairs, it was too risky; they must think the matter over, and devise a way for her to go down without being noticed. But she was obstinate, simply wishing to get away; and she again made for the door, which he defended. Then he thought of the servants’ staircase. Nothing could be more convenient; she could go quickly through her own kitchen into her apartment. Only, as Marie Pichon was always in the passage of a morning, Octave considered it prudent to divert her attention, whilst the other young woman made her escape.
He went out in his ordinary quiet way, and was surprised to find Saturnin making himself at home at Marie’s, and calmly watching her do her housework. The madman loved thus to seek refuge beside her as in former days, delighted with the manner in which she left him to himself, and certain of not being jostled. Moreover, he was not in her way, and she willingly tolerated him, though his conversational powers were not great. It was company all the same, and she would still sing her ballad in a low and expiring voice.
“Hallo! so you’re with your lover?” said Octave, maneuvering so as to keep the door shut behind his back.
Marie turned crimson. Oh! that poor Monsieur Saturnin! Was it possible? He who seemed to suffer even when any one touched his hand by accident! And the madman also got angry. He would not be any one’s lover—never, never! Whoever told his sister such a lie would have him to deal with. Octave, amazed at his sudden irritation, felt it necessary to calm him.
Meanwhile Berthe made her way to the servants’ staircase. She had two flights to descend. At the first step a shrill laugh, issuing from Madame Juzeur’s kitchen below, caused her to stop; and she tremblingly stood against the landing window, opened wide onto the narrow courtyard.