Flore, who was listening to them motionless, having caught the eyes of Séverine, seated on a chair before the fire, made her a sign that she wanted to take her into the adjoining room.
"Mamma," said she as they entered, "it's Madame Roubaud. Wouldn't you like to have a chat with her?"
Phasie was in bed, her face yellow, her legs swollen; so ill that she had not been able to get up for a fortnight. And she passed this time in the poorly furnished room, heated to suffocation by an iron stove, obstinately pondering over the fixed idea she had got into her head, without any other amusement than the shock of the trains as they flew past full speed.
"Ah! Madame Roubaud," she murmured; "very good, very good."
Flore told her of the accident, and spoke to her of the people she had brought home, and who were there in the kitchen. But such things had ceased to interest her.
"Very good, very good," she repeated in the same weary voice.
Suddenly she recollected, and raised her head an instant to say:
"If madam would like to see her house, the keys are hanging there, near the wardrobe."
But Séverine refused. A shiver had come over her at the thought of going to La Croix-de-Maufras in this snow, in this livid daylight. No, no, there was nothing she desired to do there. She preferred to remain where she was, and wait in the warmth.