Constance went to her room to put on a hat; the carriage was ordered; she was going for a drive with the girls. She felt worried about poor Gerdy, who no longer took pleasure in anything:
"It will pass," she thought. "We have all of us, in our time, been through a phase of melancholy.... Adeline told me that Gerdy was in love with Erzeele ... but he doesn't appear to think about her.... Oh, how I worry and worry about it all: about my poor boy, about Mathilde!... Erzeele is bound ... is bound to be attracted by her.... Come, I need air, in this fine weather; and yet this warm air oppresses me: the summer is always oppressive in our country. The weather in our country is always becoming something: it never has become anything, like the weather in the south; it is becoming, always becoming something.... It's sultry now, the sun is scorching; we are sure to have a storm this evening."
She now left her room, ready, and thought:
"Addie is coming to lunch to-day; it's his day: oh, how I always long for that day!... Last time, he had to answer some letters and ran for ink for his writing-table. I'll just see if everything is in order now."
She entered the room that used to be Addie's study:
"Yes, the ink's there," she told herself, with a glance at the writing-table. "How uncosy, how cold the room looks, with nothing but the old furniture, the old man's furniture!... There are letters for Addie again: the poor boy never has any rest...."
Casually she took a step towards the table and was struck by the appearance of the letters:
"What is that?" she thought.
The letters—there were three of them—were without stamps or postmarks: it was this that had struck her.
"Bills?" she wondered for a moment.