She did not stay where she was, however.  At the end of the quarter of an hour she sent Georges away after making him solemnly promise not to listen at the door, as such conduct would scarcely look proper in case the servants saw him.  As he went into her bedroom Zizi ventured in a choking sort of way to remark: 

“It’s my brother, you know—­”

“Don’t you fear,” she said with much dignity; “if he’s polite I’ll be polite.”

Francois ushered in Philippe Hugon, who wore morning dress.  Georges began crossing on tiptoe on the other side of the room, for he was anxious to obey the young woman.  But the sound of voices retained him, and he hesitated in such anguish of mind that his knees gave way under him.  He began imagining that a dread catastrophe would befall, that blows would be struck, that something abominable would happen, which would make Nana everlastingly odious to him.  And so he could not withstand the temptation to come back and put his ear against the door.  He heard very ill, for the thick portieres deadened every sound, but he managed to catch certain words spoken by Philippe, stern phrases in which such terms as “mere child,” “family,” “honor,” were distinctly audible.  He was so anxious about his darling’s possible answers that his heart beat violently and filled his head with a confused, buzzing noise.  She was sure to give vent to a “Dirty blackguard!” or to a “Leave me bloody well alone!  I’m in my own house!” But nothing happened—­not a breath came from her direction.  Nana seemed dead in there!  Soon even his brother’s voice grew gentler, and he could not make it out at all, when a strange murmuring sound finally stupefied him.  Nana was sobbing!  For a moment or two he was the prey of contending feelings and knew not whether to run away or to fall upon Philippe.  But just then Zoe came into the room, and he withdrew from the door, ashamed at being thus surprised.

She began quietly to put some linen away in a cupboard while he stood mute and motionless, pressing his forehead against a windowpane.  He was tortured by uncertainty.  After a short silence the woman asked: 

“It’s your brother that’s with Madame?”

“Yes,” replied the lad in a choking voice.

There was a fresh silence.

“And it makes you anxious, doesn’t it, Monsieur Georges?”

“Yes,” he rejoined in the same painful, suffering tone.

Zoe was in no hurry.  She folded up some lace and said slowly: 

“You’re wrong; Madame will manage it all.”

And then the conversation ended; they said not another word.  Still she did not leave the room.  A long quarter of an hour passed, and she turned round again without seeming to notice the look of exasperation overspreading the lad’s face, which was already white with the effects of uncertainty and constraint.  He was casting sidelong glances in the direction of the drawing room.