timidity and weakness, sought nothing beyond his humble daily task, and was content to die in the shady corner to which he was accustomed.  It was suspected, however, that he led a mysterious maniacal life, tinged with anxious jealousy, at home, in that flat of the Boulevard de Grenelle which he had so obstinately refused to quit.  His servant had orders to admit nobody, and she herself knew nothing.  If he gave her free admittance to the dining- and drawing-rooms, he did not allow her to set foot in his own bedroom, formerly shared by Valerie, nor in that which Reine had occupied.  He himself alone entered these chambers, which he regarded as sanctuaries, of which he was the sole priest.  Under pretence of sweeping or dusting, he would shut himself up in one or the other of them for hours at a time.  It was in vain that the servant tried to glance inside, in vain that she listened at the doors when he spent his holidays at home; she saw nothing and heard nothing.  Nobody could have told what relics those chapels contained, nor with what religious cult he honored them.  Another cause of surprise was his niggardly, avaricious life, which, as time went on, had become more and more pronounced, in such wise that his only expenses were his rental of sixteen hundred francs, the wages he paid to his servant, and the few pence per day which she with difficulty extracted from him to defray the cost of food and housekeeping.  His salary had now risen to eight thousand francs a year, and he certainly did not spend half of it.  What became, then, of his big savings, the money which he refused to devote to enjoyment?  In what secret hole, and for what purpose, what secret passion, did he conceal it?  Nobody could tell.  But amid it all he remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, continued very cleanly in his habits, keeping his beard, which was now white as snow, very carefully tended.  And he came to his office every morning with a little smile on his face, in such wise that nothing in this man of regular methodical life revealed the collapse within him, all the ashes and smoldering fire which disaster had left in his heart.

By degrees a link of some intimacy had been formed between Constance and Morange.  When, after his daughter’s death, she had seen him return to the works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with which some covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled.  Maurice was destined to live five years longer, but she was already haunted by apprehensions, and could never meet Morange without experiencing a chilling shudder, for he, as she repeated to herself, had lost his only child.  “Ah, God! so such a catastrophe was possible.”  Then, on being stricken herself, on experiencing the horrible distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping, incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brother in misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to none other.  At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, and the pair of