answered:  the shadows and the cold weighed upon him, and the noise of the old shoes continued in the distance and prevented him praying.  Nothing, indeed, save that tiresome noise was audible in the deserted church, where the matutinal sweeping was unknown before the early masses had somewhat warmed the air of the place.  After that he rose to his feet with the help of a chair, his knees cracking under him as he did so.  God was not yet there.  And why should he weep in M. Venot’s arms?  The man could do nothing.

And then mechanically he returned to Nana’s house.  Outside he slipped, and he felt the tears welling to his eyes again, but he was not angry with his lot—­he was only feeble and ill.  Yes, he was too tired; the rain had wet him too much; he was nipped with cold, but the idea of going back to his great dark house in the Rue Miromesnil froze his heart.  The house door at Nana’s was not open as yet, and he had to wait till the porter made his appearance.  He smiled as he went upstairs, for he already felt penetrated by the soft warmth of that cozy retreat, where he would be able to stretch his limbs and go to sleep.

When Zoe opened the door to him she gave a start of most uneasy astonishment.  Madame had been taken ill with an atrocious sick headache, and she hadn’t closed her eyes all night.  Still, she could quite go and see whether Madame had gone to sleep for good.  And with that she slipped into the bedroom while he sank back into one of the armchairs in the drawing room.  But almost at that very moment Nana appeared.  She had jumped out of bed and had scarce had time to slip on a petticoat.  Her feet were bare, her hair in wild disorder, her nightgown all crumpled.

“What!  You here again?” she cried with a red flush on her cheeks.

Up she rushed, stung by sudden indignation, in order herself to thrust him out of doors.  But when she saw him in such sorry plight—­nay, so utterly done for—­she felt infinite pity.

“Well, you are a pretty sight, my dear fellow!” she continued more gently.  “But what’s the matter?  You’ve spotted them, eh?  And it’s given you the hump?”

He did not answer; he looked like a broken-down animal.  Nevertheless, she came to the conclusion that he still lacked proofs, and to hearten him up the said: 

“You see now?  I was on the wrong tack.  Your wife’s an honest woman, on my word of honor!  And now, my little friend, you must go home to bed.  You want it badly.”

He did not stir.

“Now then, be off!  I can’t keep you here.  But perhaps you won’t presume to stay at such a time as this?”

“Yes, let’s go to bed,” he stammered.

She repressed a violent gesture, for her patience was deserting her.  Was the man going crazy?

“Come, be off!” she repeated.

“No.”

But she flared up in exasperation, in utter rebellion.

“It’s sickening!  Don’t you understand I’m jolly tired of your company?  Go and find your wife, who’s making a cuckold of you.  Yes, she’s making a cuckold of you.  I say so—­yes, I do now.  There, you’ve got the sack!  Will you leave me or will you not?”