He remembered her words later on when Hodder sent for him to come down. “Not in fear,” she had said.
On the edge of the table, where it had reposed since Dr Hodder dropped it there, was the small photograph of Matilde. He had not touched it, but he had bent over it for many minutes at a time, studying the sweet, never-to-be-forgotten, and yet curiously unfamiliar features of that long-ago loved one. He looked at it now as he waited for the door to open, and his thoughts leaped back to the last glimpse he had ever had of that adorable face. Then it was white with despair and misery; here it looked up at him with smiling eyes and the languor of unbroken tranquillity.
Suddenly he realised that the room was quite dark. He dashed to the window and threw aside the broad, thick curtains. A stream of afternoon sunshine rushed into the place. He would have light this time; he would not be deceived by the darkness, as he had been once before. This time he would see her face plainly. There should be no sickening illusion. He straightened his tall figure and waited for the door to open.
The window at his back was open. He heard a penetrating but hushed voice speaking from one of the windows across the court, from his wife's window, he knew without a glance of inquiry.
Céleste, her maid, was giving orders in great agitation to the furnace-man in the yard below.
“No, no, you big fool! I am not dismiss. I am not going away—no. Tak' zem back. Madame has change her mind. I am not fire non, non! Tak' zem back, vitement! I go some other day!”
The door was opened suddenly and Yvonne came into the room.