everything, she would confess everything, and all her avowals would say
to him: "I love you. I have never loved any one except you!" She had
not betrayed him. She would tell him nothing that he had not guessed.
She had lied so little, as little as possible, and then only not to give
him pain. How could he not understand? It was better he should know
everything, since everything meant nothing. She represented to herself
incessantly the same ideas, repeated to herself the same words.

Her lamp gave only a smoky light. She lighted candles. It was six
o'clock. She realized that she had slept. She ran to the window. The
sky was black, and mingled with the earth in a chaos of thick darkness.
Then she was curious to know exactly at what hour the sun would rise.
She had had no idea of this. She thought only that nights were long in
December. She did not think of looking at the calendar. The heavy step
of workmen walking in squads, the noise of wagons of milkmen and
marketmen, came to her ear like sounds of good augury. She shuddered at
this first awakening of the city.




CHAPTER XXXIV

"I SEE THE OTHER WITH YOU ALWAYS!"

At nine o'clock, in the yard of the little house, she observed M.
Fusellier sweeping, in the rain, while smoking his pipe. Madame
Fusellier came out of her box. Both looked embarrassed. Madame
Fusellier was the first to speak: