That night there was no sound of cannon in the distance, and Sophia for some time was unable to sleep.  She woke up with a start, after a doze, and struck a match to look at her watch.  It had stopped.  She had forgotten to wind it up, which omission indicated that the grocer had perturbed her more than she thought.  She could not be sure how long she had slept.  The hour might be two o’clock or it might be six o’clock.  Impossible for her to rest!  She got up and dressed (in case it should be as late as she feared) and crept down the interminable creaking stairs with the candle.  As she descended, the conviction that it was the middle of the night grew upon her, and she stepped more softly.  There was no sound save that caused by her footfalls.  With her latchkey she cautiously opened the front door of the flat and entered.  She could then hear the noisy ticking of the small, cheap clock in the kitchen.  At the same moment another door creaked, and Chirac, with hair all tousled, but fully dressed, appeared in the corridor.

“So you have decided to sell yourself to him!” Chirac whispered.

She drew away instinctively, and she could feel herself blushing.  She was at a loss.  She saw that Chirac was in a furious rage, tremendously moved.  He crept towards her, half crouching.  She had never seen anything so theatrical as his movement, and the twitching of his face.  She felt that she too ought to be theatrical, that she ought nobly to scorn his infamous suggestion, his unwarrantable attack.  Even supposing that she had decided to sell herself to the old pasha, did that concern him?  A dignified silence, an annihilating glance, were all that he deserved.  But she was not capable of this heroic behaviour.

“What time is it?” she added weakly.

“Three o’clock,” Chirac sneered.

“I forgot to wind up my watch,” she said.  “And so I came down to see.”

“In effect!” He spoke sarcastically, as if saying:  “I’ve waited for you, and here you are.”

She said to herself that she owed him nothing, but all the time she felt that he and she were the only young people in that flat, and that she did owe to him the proof that she was guiltless of the supreme dishonour of youth.  She collected her forces and looked at him.

“You should be ashamed,” she said.  “You will wake the others.”

“And M. Niepce—­will he need to be wakened?”

“M.  Niepce is not here,” she said.

Niepce’s door was unlatched.  She pushed it open, and went into the room, which was empty and bore no sign of having been used.

“Come and satisfy yourself!” she insisted.

Chirac did so.  His face fell.

She took her watch from her pocket.

“And now wind my watch, and set it, please.”