Morange's lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to
violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent
Mathieu's heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine.

"Ah, yes!" said the other, "I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her
mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won't you? Tell
her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful
misfortune. And don't worry me, I beg you, don't take me away. I promise
you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her.
Nobody will even hear me; I shan't disturb any one."

Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases as
he sank into a dream of his wrecked life.

Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him
there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was
indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and to
breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle.
Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast sky,
all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arose before him
like a consolatory promise of life's coming victory, an atonement for
every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlasting hope kept full
of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her pangs, love would
triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness for to-morrow's
allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly that Mathieu almost
despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little house, that he
might once more take part in life's poem, that august festival instinct
with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity's everlasting hymn, the
coming of a new being into the world.