“Come in,” said Ambrose cordially. “Make yourself at home. How are all the folks at home?” “I will tell you all to-morrow. What I want now is some sound sleep. I am tired out.”
Ambrose showed him his own bed, and soon Théophraste was stretched out and asleep.
The following day Ambrose tried to get some news from Théophraste, who, however, observed an absolute silence, and would not be persuaded to say a word. He was like a dumb man. He passed his time for two days in examining words and papers, which filled his pockets, and in writing, but always without saying a word.
One morning as he was preparing to go out, Ambrose asked him: “Where are you going?”
“I am going to see M. Mifroid about the details of a trip we took together, and of which you will learn when I am dead.”
“You are going to kill yourself?”
“Oh, no. There is no use in doing that. I shall die soon enough. But I shall come to your house to die, my dear Ambrose. After going to see M. Mifroid, I shall go to see my wife.”
“I did not dare to ask about her. Your sadness and silence made me fear some domestic trouble. It is all so inexplicable.”
“She still loves me,” said Théophraste.
Before letting him go, Ambrose made him change his underclothes, and lent him a clean shirt, as he said he could not see his wife decently in the rags he was in at present.