In the bed-room, Rose and Gasparine were recovering themselves. Had any one ever seen such a shameless creature? to walk about the staircase with nothing on! Really! there were women who respected nothing, at certain times! But it was close upon two o’clock; they must get to sleep. And they embraced again: good night, my darling—good night, my duck. Eh! was it not nice to love each other, and to always agree together, when one beheld such catastrophes occurring in other families? Rose again took up her Dickens; he supplied all her requirements; she would read a few more pages, then let the book slip into the bed, the same as she did every night, and fall off asleep, weary with emotion. Campardon followed Gasparine, made her get into bed first, and then laid himself down beside her. They both grumbled; the sheets had become cold again; they were not at all comfortable; it would take them another half-hour to get warm.
And Lisa, who, before going up-stairs, had returned to Angèle’s room, was saying to her:
“The lady has sprained her ankle. Come, show me how she sprained it.”
“Why! like this!” replied the child, throwing herself on the maid’s neck, and kissing her on her lips.
Berthe was on the stairs shivering. It was cold, the heating apparatus was not lighted till the beginning of November. Her fright had at length abated. She had gone down and listened at her door: nothing, not a sound. Then she had gone up, not daring to venture as far as Octave’s room, but listening from a distance: there was a death-like silence, unbroken by a murmur.
Suddenly, a noise affrighted her, causing her to jump up, and she was about to hammer with both her fists on her mother’s door, when some one calling out stopped her.
It was a voice almost as faint as a zephyr.
“Madame—madame—”
She looked down-stairs, but saw nothing.
“Madame—madame—it’s I.”