Théophraste did not sleep that night. While Marceline reposed peacefully by his side, he lay with eyes wide open in the darkness. His respiration was irregular, and he sighed often. Anxiety lay heavy upon him.
CHAPTER IX
The Portrait
DAY broke over the city. A cloudy day, with a mist that enveloped everything in a sinister manner. The sun tried in vain to penetrate that sombre atmosphere.
Mid-day showed a dark red ball, rolling ingloriously in a sulphurous light. Such was the picture of the heavens that day.
Théophraste sprang out of bed early, and awoke Marceline suddenly by an excess of foolish hilarity. Marceline inquired the reason for such strange joyfulness. He said that he could not help laughing at the idea of M. Milfroid, the Commissioner of Police, receiving back the stolen goods which had been pickpocketed right before his very eyes. “My dear Marceline,” he said, “it is foolish, the way people carry the money in their pockets. If you cannot put your hand in, slip a straw, filled with glue, in. It is an excellent scheme for extricating money from people’s pockets.”
Marceline sat up and gazed at him. She could not understand, as he never looked more natural in his life, and yet he was saying peculiar things, and his words were most unnatural.
“Théophraste, you frighten me,” she cried, and in her fear, groaned, “My poor child.”