Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valerie to the door.  She had the same plump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but the other was quivering, as with distress and grief.  “You are not sensible, my dear child,” said Madame Bourdieu to her.  “It is simply foolish of you.  Come, go home and be good.”

Then, Valerie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieu was greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair.  And she suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spoken in his presence.  Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrival of Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptly settled his business and went off, after promising Norine that he would return some day to see her.

To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue La Boetie, when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner of that street he again perceived Valerie, now talking to a man, none other than her husband.  So Morange had come with her, and had waited for her in the street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu.  And now they both stood there consulting together, hesitating and evidently in distress.  It was plain to Mathieu that a terrible combat was going on within them.  They stamped about, moved hither and thither in a feverish way, then halted once more to resume their conversation in a whisper.  At one moment the young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the Rue La Boetie, they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, in the direction of Grenelle.  But all at once they halted once more and exchanged a few words; and then Mathieu’s heart contracted as he saw them retrace their steps along the Rue La Boetie and follow the Rue de la Pepiniere as far as the Rue du Rocher.  He readily divined whither they were going, but some irresistible force impelled him to follow them; and before long, from an open doorway, in which he prudently concealed himself, he saw them look round to ascertain whether they were observed, and then slink, first the wife and afterwards the husband, into the dark passage of La Rouche’s house.  For a moment Mathieu lingered in his hiding-place, quivering, full of dread and horror; and when at last he turned his steps homeward it was with a heavy heart indeed.

The weeks went by, the winter ran its course, and March had come round, when the memory of all that the young fellow had heard and seen that day—­things which he had vainly striven to forget—­was revived in the most startling fashion.  One morning at eight o’clock Morange abruptly called at the little pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, accompanied by his daughter Reine.  The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, and as soon as Reine had joined Mathieu’s children, and could not hear what he said, he implored the young man to come with him.  In a gasp he told the dreadful truth—­Valerie was dying.  Her daughter believed her to be in the country, but that was a mere fib devised to quiet the girl.  Valerie was elsewhere, in Paris, and he, Morange, had a cab waiting below, but lacked the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant was his grief, so great his dread.