A door opened soon at the other end of the room and Marcel entered.
He had greatly changed during these few months.
His eye shot forth a gloomy fire, his cheeks were hollow, and numerous threads of silver showed themselves in his dark locks. It was evident that anxiety, watchings and cares, contended on his wrinkled brow.
At the sight of the young woman he assumed a livid palor.
—You, he murmured in a stifled voice, you here, Mademoiselle?
—I am, replied Suzanne; did you not reckon then on seeing me again?
—Not now, dear child, I confess to you. I had said to you: Wait.
—And I have waited. And weary of waiting, I decided to come and to know finally from your own mouth what I must wait for, and on what I most count. But … sir…. I am tired: will you allow me to sit down?
—Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I mean to say, dear Suzanne, but your coming has filled me with such confusion….
He handed her a chair, and sat down facing her.