“Are you feeling better, uncle?” asked Denise. He only stopped for a second to glance at her. Then he started off again, going from the pay-desk to an obscure corner.
“Yes, yes. Very well, thanks.”
She tried to find some consoling subject, some cheerful remark, but could think of nothing. “Did you hear the noise? The house is down.”
“Ah! it's true,” murmured he, with an astonished look, “that must have been the house. I felt the ground tremble. Seeing them on the roof this morning, I closed my door.”
And he made a vague movement, to imitate that such things no longer interested him. Every time he arrived before the pay-desk, he looked at the empty seat, that well-known velvet-covered seat, where his wife and daughter had grown up. Then when his perpetual walking brought him to the other end, he gazed at the shelves drowned in shadow, in which a few pieces of cloth were gradually growing mouldy. It was a widowed house, those he loved had disappeared, his business had come to a shameful end, and he was left alone to commune with his dead heart, and his pride brought low amidst all these catastrophes. He raised his eyes towards the black ceiling, overcome by the sepulchral silence which reigned in the little dining-room, the family nook, of which he had formerly loved every part, even down to the stuffy odour. Not a breath was now heard in the old house, his regular heavy step made the ancient walls resound, as if he were walking over the tombs of his affections.
At last Denise approached the subject which had brought her. “Uncle, you can't stay like this. You must come to a decision.”
He replied, without stopping his walk—“No doubt; but what would you have me do? I've tried to sell, but no one has come. One of these mornings I shall shut up shop and go off.”
She was aware that a failure was no longer to be feared. The creditors had preferred to come to an understanding before such a long series of misfortunes. Everything paid, the old man would find himself in the street, penniless.
“But what will you do, then?” murmured she, seeking some transition in order to arrive at the offer she dared not make.
“I don't know,” replied he. “They'll pick me up all right.” He had changed his route, going from the dining-room to the windows with their lamentable displays, looking at the latter, every time he came to them, with a gloomy expression. His gaze did not even turn towards the triumphal façade of The Ladies' Paradise, whose architectural lines ran as far as the eye could see, to the right and to the left, at both ends of the street. He was thoroughly annihilated, and had not even the strength to get angry.