“Do worry. I shall look out.... Besides, you are wrong.... When his ambitions are not concerned Saulvard is not such a bad fellow....”
Cyprien whistled incredulously:
“Phew!... That may be.... Well, see you later ... seven lock.”
And he accompanied his brother to the top of the steps.
The lamp-posts were lit outside when M. Raindal reached his home in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs.
Rapidly he put on his brown smoking-jacket and his felt slippers, and passed quietly through the dark hall towards his study. Two large rectangular oak tables, face to face as in a bank, almost filled the room. Thérèse was sitting at one of them, writing by the light of an oil lamp. The green cardboard shade threw back on her the crude light which her bowed forehead reflected in spots.
“Already at work!” M. Raindal exclaimed.
He took her head between his two hands as one does with a little girl and kissed her with a recrudescent selfish tenderness, with that need for a closer contact which those who are dear to us inspire after we have suffered from the wickedness of others.
She released herself with a smile, and said gently:
“Let me alone, father!... I am reading the proofs of your article for La Revue. They are coming for them at 5.30. You can see that there is no time to lose.”