This oppressive silence was still unbroken when M. Pascal, returning and opening the door half-way, said across the threshold:
"To tell the truth, Dutertre, I have reflected. Listen to me, my dear Dutertre."
A ray of foolish hope illumined the face of Dutertre; for a moment he believed that, in spite of the cold and sarcastic cruelty that Pascal had first affected, he did feel some pity at last.
Sophie shared the same hope; like her husband she listened with indescribable anguish to the words of the man who was to dispose so absolutely of their fate, while Pascal said:
"Next Saturday is your pay-day, is it not, my dear Dutertre? Let me call you so notwithstanding what has passed between us."
"Thank God, he has some pity," thought Dutertre, and he replied aloud:
"Yes, monsieur."
"I would not wish, you understand, my dear Dutertre," continued Pascal, "to put you in ruinous embarrassment. I know Paris, and in the present business crisis you could not get credit for a cent, especially if it were known that I have withdrawn mine from you, and as, after all, you relied upon my name to meet your liabilities, did you not?"
"Charles, we are saved!" whispered Sophie, panting, "he was only testing us."
Dutertre, struck with this idea, which appeared to him all the more probable as he had at first suspected it, no longer doubted his safety; his heart beat violently, his contracted features relaxed into their ordinary cheerful expression, and he replied, stammering from excess of emotion: