He was at the door, his hair scarcely singed and his hands but slightly scorched; and when he had tossed the child, who was struggling and crying, into the woman's arms, he almost became angry with his cousin:
'What's the matter with you? What are you going on like this for?'
She threw her arms round his neck and burst out sobbing in such a state of nervous excitement that, fearing she might faint, he made her sit down on an old moss-covered stone by the side of the house well. He himself was now beginning to feel faint. There was a trough full of water there, and he steeped his hands in it with a sensation of acute relief. The coldness restored him to himself, and he then began to experience great surprise at what he had done. Was it possible that he had gone into the midst of those flames? It was as if he had had a double; he could distinctly see himself showing incredible agility and presence of mind amidst the smoke, as though he were looking at some wonderful feat performed by a stranger. A remnant of mental exaltation filled him with a subtle joy which he had never known before.
Pauline had recovered a little, and examined his hands, saying:
'No! there's no great harm done. The burns are only slight ones. But we must go home at once, and I will attend to them. Oh! how you did frighten me!'
She dipped her handkerchief in the water and bound it round his right hand, which was the more severely burnt of the two. Then they rose and tried to console the woman, who, after showering wild kisses on the child, had laid it down near her, and was now not even looking at it. She had begun to grieve about the house, wailing pitiably as she asked what would her men say and do when they came back and found their home in ruins. The walls were still standing, and black smoke was pouring out of the brazier within them, amidst a loud crackling of sparks which could not be seen.
'Come! my poor woman,' Pauline said to her; 'don't be so down-hearted. Come and see us to-morrow.'
Some neighbours, attracted by the smoke, now ran up, and Pauline led Lazare away. Their return home was a very pleasant one. Though Lazare suffered but little pain, his cousin insisted upon giving him her arm to support him. They still felt too much emotion to speak, and they looked at each other smiling. Pauline felt a kind of happy pride. He must really be brave, then, in spite of his pallor at the thought of death! As they made their way along she became absorbed in astonishment at the inconsistencies of the only man whom she knew well. She had seen him spend whole nights at his work, and then give himself up to idleness for months. She had known him exhibit the most uncompromising truthfulness after lying unblushingly. She had received a brotherly kiss from him on her brow, and she had felt his hands, hot and feverish with passion, burn her wrists with their grasp; and now to-day he had proved himself a hero. She had done right, then, in not despairing of life, in not judging that everyone must be altogether good or altogether bad. When they arrived at Bonneville their emotion and silence found relief in a torrent of rapid talk. They went over every little detail again, recounting the story a score of times, and remembering at each repetition some little incident that had been previously forgotten. The affair was indeed talked about for a long time afterwards, and help was sent to the burnt-out peasants.
Lazare had been nearly a month at Bonneville when a letter arrived from Louise, complaining that she was utterly overwhelmed with ennui. In his reply to it he told her that he would fetch her at the beginning of the following week. There had been some tremendous falls of rain, those violent deluges which so frequently swept down upon the district, and shrouded earth, sea, and sky beneath a pall of grey vapour. Lazare had spoken seriously of finishing his play, and Pauline, whom he wished to have near him that she might encourage him, took her knitting—the little stockings which she distributed among the village children—into her cousin's room. But it was very little work he did when she had taken her place by the table. They were constantly talking to each other in low tones, repeating the same things over and over again, without ever seeming to weary of them, while their eyes never strayed from one another. Nothing seemed to them more delightful than that languid quiet, that feeling of drowsiness which glided over them, while the rain pattered down upon the slates of the roof. An interval of silence would at times make them flush, and they unconsciously put a caress in every word they addressed to each other, impelled thereto by that influence which had brought a renewal of those old days which they had thought had passed away for ever.