He uttered that name in spite of himself:
"Francoise?"
She contemplated him once more with a fixed stare, then, excited by a wild feeling of terror, a sense of profound horror, she faltered in a very low tone, almost speaking into his mouth:
"Oh! oh! it is you, Célestin."
They no longer stirred, their eyes riveted in one another.
Around them, his comrades were still yelling. The sounds made by glasses, by fists, by heels keeping time to the choruses, and the shrill cries of the women, mingled with the roar of their songs.
He felt her leaning on him, clasping him, ashamed and frightened, his sister. Then, in a whisper, lest anyone might hear him, so hushed that she could scarcely catch his words:
"What a misfortune! I have made a nice piece of work of it!"
The next moment, her eyes filled with tears, and she faltered:
"Is that my fault?"