The door of the room was opened once more.
"What! You left him in the dark! Anna! Good gracious! A light!"
Christophe was so weak, he was so utterly wretched, that the sound of the man's loud voice, cordial as it was, brought him comfort in his misery. He gripped the hand that was held out to him. The two men looked at each other. Braun was a little man: he had a red face with a black, scrubby and untidy beard, kind eyes twinkling behind spectacles, a broad, bumpy, wrinkled, worried, inexpressive brow, hair carefully plastered down and parted right down to his neck. He was very ugly: but Christophe was very glad to see him and to be shaking hands with him. Braun made no effort to conceal his surprise.
"Good Heavens! How changed he is! What a state he is in!"
"I'm just come from Paris," said Christophe, "I'm a fugitive."
"I know, I know. We saw the papers. They said you were caught. Thank
God! You've been much in our thoughts, mine and Anna's."
He stopped and made Christophe known to the silent creature who had admitted him:
"My wife."
She had stayed in the doorway of the room with a lamp in her hand. She had a taciturn face with a firm chin. The light fell on her brown hair with its reddish shades of color, and on her pallid cheeks. She held out her hand to Christophe stiffly with the elbow close against her side: he took it without looking at her. He was almost done.
"I came…." he tried to explain. "I thought you would be so kind … if it isn't putting you out too much … as to put me up for a day—"