nobody but himself had been inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there.  But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed even to cross the threshold.  Moreover, although the old accountant, who was now white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulously clean of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which he must have spent his evenings in repairing.  Such, too, was his maniacal, sordid avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart from the money which he paid for his bread—­bread of the commonest kind, which he purchased every four days and ate when it was stale, in order that he might make it last the longer.  This greatly puzzled the people who were acquainted with him, and never a week went by without the house-porter propounding the question:  “When a gentleman of such quiet habits earns eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spends a cent, what can he do with his money?” Some folks even tried to reckon up the amount which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thought that it might perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs.

But more serious trouble declared itself.  He was twice snatched away from certain death.  One day, when Denis was returning homewards across the Grenelle bridge he perceived Morange leaning far over the parapet, watching the flow of the water, and all ready to make a plunge if he had not been grasped by his coat-tails.  The poor man, on recovering his self-possession, began to laugh in his gentle way, and talked of having felt giddy.  Then, on another occasion, at the works, Victor Moineaud pushed him away from some machinery in motion at the very moment when, as if hypnotized, he was about to surrender himself to its devouring clutches.  Then he again smiled, and acknowledged that he had done wrong in passing so near to the wheels.  After this he was watched, for people came to the conclusion that he occasionally lost his head.  If Denis retained him as chief accountant, this was, firstly, from a feeling of gratitude for his long services; but, apart from that matter, the extraordinary thing was that Morange had never discharged his duties more ably, obstinately tracing every doubtful centime in his books, and displaying the greatest accuracy over the longest additions.  Always showing a calm and restful face, as though no tempest had ever assailed his heart, he clung tightly to his mechanical life, like a discreet maniac, who, though people might not know it, ought, perhaps, to have been placed under restraint.

At the same time, it should be mentioned that for some few years already there had been quite a big affair in Morange’s life.  Although he was Constance’s confidant, although she had made him her creature by the force of her despotic will, he had gradually conceived the greatest affection for Denis’s daughter, Hortense.  As this child grew up, he fancied that he found in her his own long-mourned daughter, Reine.  She had recently