She pushed Juliette forward, but the young woman threw herself sobbing on her neck.  She was in the throes of a nervous reaction.  She was overwhelmed with shame, and would fain have defended herself, fain have given a reason for being found in that man’s company.  Then instinctively she gathered up her skirts, as though she were about to cross a gutter.  With the tip of his boot Malignon, who had gone on first, was clearing away the plaster which littered the back staircase.  The doors were shut once more.

Meantime, Helene had remained standing in the middle of the sitting-room.  Silence reigned there, a warm, close silence, only disturbed by the crackling of the burnt logs.  There was a singing in her ears, and she heard nothing.  But after an interval, which seemed to her interminable, the rattle of a cab suddenly resounded.  It was Juliette’s cab rolling away.

Then Helene sighed, and she made a gesture of mute gratitude.  The thought that she would not be tortured by everlasting remorse for having acted despicably filled her with pleasant and thankful feelings.  She felt relieved, deeply moved, and yet so weak, now that this awful crisis was over, that she lacked the strength to depart in her turn.  In her heart she thought that Henri was coming, and that he must meet some one in this place.  There was a knock at the door, and she opened it at once.

The first sensation on either side was one of bewilderment.  Henri entered, his mind busy with thoughts of the letter which he had received, and his face pale and uneasy.  But when he caught sight of her a cry escaped his lips.

“You!  My God!  It was you!”

The cry betokened more astonishment than pleasure.  But soon there came a furious awakening of his love.

“You love me, you love me!” he stammered.  “Ah! it was you, and I did not understand.”

He stretched out his arm as he spoke; but Helene, who had greeted his entrance with a smile, now started back with wan cheeks.  Truly she had waited for him; she had promised herself that they would be together for a moment, and that she would invent some fiction.  Now, however, full consciousness of the situation flashed upon her; Henri believed it to be an assignation.  Yet she had never for one moment desired such a thing, and her heart rebelled.

“Henri, I pray you, release me,” said she.

He had grasped her by the wrists, and was drawing her slowly towards him, as though to kiss her.  The love that had been surging within him for months, but which had grown less violent owing to the break in their intimacy, now burst forth more fiercely than ever.

“Release me,” she resumed.  “You are frightening me.  I assure you, you are mistaken.”

His surprise found voice once more.

“Was it not you then who wrote to me?” he asked.

She hesitated for a second.  What could she say in answer?

“Yes,” she whispered at last.