At last he climbed the waxed steps of his staircase; they slipped from under his feet. The walls were as cold as a cellar; they were painted to imitate marble, and the candle threw a gigantic shadow on them. M. Raindal opened the door. Smells of cooking and washing soda caught him at the throat. He crossed the little apartment on tiptoe; the silk lining of his frock-coat rustled against his legs as a last echo of the elegances he had left behind. The mediocrity of his lodging was all the more apparent to him. What poor furniture, what a lack of comfort after the luxury, the ease and all the delicate things which abounded in the rue de Prony! M. Raindal gave a deep sigh and slipped between the sheets, near Mme. Raindal, who snored imperturbably in a twin bed.... Often he left the light on and lay there dreaming, retracing the evening; and his nostalgia vanished as his memories revived.
It returned the next day at the sight of Thérèse in her coarse morning garb, that common, dark dressing-gown which was so different from the soft gowns of Mme. Chambannes.
Ah! M. Raindal understood the severity of the girl towards his little pupil. Envy, alas; of course, it was envy! A jealousy that was incapable of discerning anything in Mme. Chambannes beyond the gaps in her learning and her intellectual poverty—as if erudition meant everything in a woman; as if beauty, elegance, the art of attracting did not also rank among the precious gifts and the powerful faculties. His discovery exalted him to such a point that he felt himself caught in a sudden rush of compassion, instead of mentally reproaching her for the physical disgrace she had suffered which had for some time unwittingly ill-disposed him toward her. He ran to Thérèse and ardently kissed her forehead. She kissed him in return on the cheek, in an attempt at tenderness. But her body was bent back and gave the instant lie to the smile on her lips. There had passed between them an intangible sorcery which prevented their hearts from opening as of old, forbade confidence and precluded the solidarity which had united them as co-workers for so many years....
They went back to their work, resenting their powerlessness to commune with one another again, mutually embittered by the failure of their attempt, cursing each other inwardly for the wrongs which each laid at the othe door. The week started anew in this state of apparent harmony that was heavy with discord.
One night in early March, as mild as a summer night, M. Raindal, returning home from the Chambannes’, saw a light in his daughte room.
This made him anxious, for the hour was late; he knocked at the door and entered almost at the same time.
Thérèse was sobbing in her pillow; she had not undressed but lay on her uncovered bed.
M. Raindal rushed forward to help her up, but she did not wait for him. She looked up and rubbed the tears from her eyes. He inquired, still holding her in his arms:
“What is the matter, dearest?... Were you crying? What is the trouble?”
She released herself with a brusque movement of her shoulders: