Joseph sat in his armchair all the evening, engaged in slyly studying
the sixty faces which, from five o'clock until half past nine, posed
for him gratis, as he afterwards told his mother. Such behavior before
the aristocracy of Issoudun did not tend to change the opinion of the
little town concerning him: every one went home ruffled by his
sarcastic glances, uneasy under his smiles, and even frightened at his
face, which seemed sinister to a class of people unable to recognize
the singularities of genius.

After ten o'clock, when the household was in bed, Madame Hochon kept
her goddaughter in her chamber until midnight. Secure from
interruption, the two women told each other the sorrows of their
lives, and exchanged their sufferings. As Agathe listened to the last
echoes of a soul that had missed its destiny, and felt the sufferings
of a heart, essentially generous and charitable, whose charity and
generosity could never be exercised, she realized the immensity of the
desert in which the powers of this noble, unrecognized soul had been
wasted, and knew that she herself, with the little joys and interests
of her city life relieving the bitter trials sent from God, was not
the most unhappy of the two.

"You who are so pious," she said, "explain to me my shortcomings; tell
me what it is that God is punishing in me."

"He is preparing us, my child," answered the old woman, "for the
striking of the last hour."

At midnight the Knights of Idleness were collecting, one by one like
shadows, under the trees of the boulevard Baron, and speaking together
in whispers.