It was a great fault, no doubt, but one for which many excuses might be found in her easy and tender disposition, and the clever knavery of her accomplice, always talking of marriage, hiding from her that he himself was no longer free, and when at last obliged to confess it, painting such a picture of his dull life, of his despair, of his love, that the poor creature, so deeply compromised already, and incapable of one of those heroic efforts which raise the sufferer above the false situations, had given way at last, had accepted this double existence, so brilliant and so miserable, built on a lie which had lasted ten years.  Ten years of intoxicating success and unspeakable unhappiness—­ten years of singing, with the fear of exposure between each verse—­where the least remark on irregular unions wounded her like an allusion—­where the expression of her face had softened to the air of mild humility, of a guilty woman begging for pardon.  Then the certainty that she would be deserted had come to spoil even these borrowed joys, had tarnished her luxury; and what misery, what sufferings borne in silence, what incessant humiliations, even to this last, the most terrible of all!

While she is thus sadly reviewing her life in the cool of the evening and the calm of the deserted house, a gust of happy laughter rose from the rooms beneath; and recalling the confidences of Andre, his last letter telling the great news, she tried to distinguish among all these fresh and limpid voices that of her daughter Elise, her son’s betrothed, whom she did not know, whom she would never know.  This reflection added to the misery of her last moments, and loaded them with so much remorse and regret that, in spite of her will to be brave, she wept.

Night comes on little by little.  Large shadows cover the sloping windows, where the immense depth of the sky seems to lose its colour, and to deepen into obscurity.  The roofs seem to draw close together for the night, like soldiers preparing for the attack.  The bells count the hours gravely, while the martins fly round their hidden nests, and the wind makes its accustomed invasion of the rubbish of the old wood-yard.  To-night it sighs with the sound of the river, a shiver of the fog; it sighs of the river, to remind the unfortunate woman that it is there she must go.  She shivers beforehand in her lace mantle.  Why did she come here to reawaken her desire for a life impossible after the avowal she was forced to make?  Hasty steps shake the staircase; the door opens precipitately; it is Andre.  He is singing, happy, in a great hurry, for they are waiting dinner for him below.  But, as he is striking the match, he feels that someone is in the room—­a moving shadow among the shadows at rest.

“Who is there?”

Something answers him like a stifled laugh or a sob.  He believes that it is one of his little neighbours, a plot of the children to amuse themselves.  He draws near.  Two hands, two arms, seize and surround him.