The concierge told me that they were at home. I went up. Madame Ernest admitted me and ushered me into her room, saying:
“By what miracle have you come in the evening, monsieur? It is seldom enough that we see you even in the morning. Ernest is at the theatre, but he promised to return early.”
The little woman gave me a seat and then resumed her work. We talked, or rather she talked; she talked of Ernest, of his work, of his success, of their mode of life. I enjoyed listening to her. While she was speaking, I looked at her, and it seemed like one of the evenings which I used to pass in her attic room. Marguerite was still the same, and in my thoughts I loved to call her by that name still.
Suddenly she stopped and said to me:
“I am doing all the talking. I must be wearying you, am I not?”
“Oh, no!”
“But you don’t say anything.”
“I am listening to you.”
“Never mind, you are not usually silent like this. Are you unhappy?”