detached phrases, which had no particular meaning. Madame Nanteuil, the
servant, the coke fire, the lamp, the plate of sausage, awaited Félicie
in depressing silence. The clock struck one. Chevalier's suffering had
by this time attained the serenity of a flood tide. He was now certain.
The cabs were not so frequent and their wheels echoed more loudly along
the street. The rumbling of one of these cabs suddenly ceased outside the
house. A few seconds later he heard the slight grating of a key in the
lock, the slamming of the door, and light footsteps in the outer room.

The clock marked twenty-three minutes past one. He was suddenly full of
agitation, yet hopeful. She had come! Who could tell what she would say?
She might offer the most natural explanation of her late arrival.

Félicie entered the room, her hair in disorder, her eyes shining, her
cheeks white, her bruised lips a vivid red; she was tired, indifferent,
mute, happy and lovely, seeming to guard beneath her cloak, which she
held wrapped about her with both hands, some remnant of warmth and
voluptuous pleasure.

"I was beginning to be worried," said her mother. "Aren't you going to
unfasten your cloak?"

"I'm hungry," she replied. She dropped into a chair before the little
round table. Throwing her cloak over the back of the chair, she revealed
her slender figure in its little black schoolgirl's dress, and, resting
her left elbow on the oil-cloth table-cover, she proceeded to stick her
fork into the sliced sausage.

"Did everything go off well to-night?" asked Madame Nanteuil.