“No one will ever know—I shall never tell.”
“No, Monsieur Octave. Do not spoil the happiness I have in knowing you. It will do no good I assure you, and I had dreamed things—”
Then he left off speaking, having a revenge to take on woman-kind, and saying coarsely to himself: “You, at any rate, shall succumb!” The door had not even been shut, the solemnity of the staircase seemed to ascend in the midst of the silence. Lilitte was peacefully sleeping on the pillow of her crib.
When Marie and Octave rose up, they could find nothing to say to each other. She, mechanically, went and looked at her daughter, took up the plate, and then laid it down again. He remained silent, a prey to similar uneasiness, the adventure had been so unexpected; and he recalled to mind how he had fraternally planned to restore the young woman to her husband’s arms. Feeling the necessity of breaking that intolerable silence he ended by murmuring:
“You did not shut the door, then?”
She glanced out on to the landing, and stammered:
“That is true, it was open.”
Her face wore an expression of disgust. The young man too was now thinking that after all there was nothing the least funny in this adventure with a helpless woman, in the midst of that solitude.
“Dear me! the book has fallen on the floor!” she continued, picking the volume up.
A corner of the cover was broken. That drew them together, and afforded some relief. Speech returned to them. Marie appeared quite distressed.