Her eyes were full of tears, her chin seemed convulsed with spasms, her lips trembled.
Philippe's anger was mingled with a little pity; and, above all, he felt the need of putting an end to the scene as quickly as possible:
"Look here, baby, look here!" he said, employing an expression which he often used to her.
"You will come ... you must come ... that is why I stayed.... One hour, one hour of your presence!... If you don't, I shall come here, I shall indeed.... I don't care what happens!"
He had retreated to the window. Instinctively, he looked to see if it was possible to climb over the balcony and jump. It would have been absurd.
But, as he bent forward, he saw his wife, two windows further, lean out and catch sight of him. He had to smile, to conceal his perturbation; and nothing could be more hateful to him than this comedy which a child's whims were compelling him to play.
"You're quite pale," said Marthe.
"Do you think so? I'm a little tired, I suppose. You too, you are looking ..."
She broke in:
"I thought I saw your father."