“Yes, yes.”
And she hurried away, quite distracted. Left alone, he walked about the room, fumbling with his hands, putting the linen he had brought, into a bundle. He was no longer listening to the servants, when their last words attracted his attention.
“I tell you that Monsieur Hédouin died last night. If handsome Octave had foreseen that, he would have continued to cultivate Madame Hédouin, who’s worth a lot.”
This news, learnt there, amidst those surroundings, re-echoed in the innermost recesses of his being. Monsieur Hédouin was dead! And he was seized with an immense regret. He thought out loud, he could not restrain himself from saying:
“Ah! yes, by Jove! I’ve been a fool!”
When Octave at length went down, with his bundle, he met Rachel coming up to her room. Had she been a few minutes sooner, she would have caught them there. Down-stairs, she had again found her mistress in tears; but, this time, she had not got anything out of her, neither an avowal, nor a sou. And furious, understanding that they took advantage of her absence to see each other and thus to do her out of her little profits, she stared at the young man with a look black with menace. A singular schoolboy timidity prevented Octave from giving her ten francs; and, desirous of displaying perfect ease of mind, he went in to joke with Marie a while, when a grunt proceeding from a corner caused him to turn round: it was Saturnin, who rose up saying, in one of his jealous fits:
“Take care! we’re mortal enemies!”
That morning was the 8th of October, and the boot-stitcher had to clear out before noon. For a week past, Monsieur Gourd had been watching her with a dread that increased hourly.
The boot-stitcher had implored the landlord to let her stay a few days longer, so as to get over her confinement, but had met with an indignant refusal. Pains were seizing her at every moment; during the last night, she had fancied she would be brought to bed all alone. Then, toward nine o’clock, she had begun her moving, helping the youngster whose little truck was in the courtyard, leaning against the furniture or sitting down on the stairs, whenever a formidable spasm doubled her up.
Monsieur Gourd, however, had discovered nothing. Not a man! He had been regularly humbugged. So that, all the morning, he prowled about in a cold rage. Octave, who met him, shuddered at the thought that he also must know of their intimacy.