"Why, yes," said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which
Boutan put to her, "it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to
be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other
wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn't stir."
Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as he
was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of a
collection of his wife's portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing her
at all ages, which he had hung on the walls.
"It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange," said Boutan, "you do right in
taking a stroll."
The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the sun
as if he had not previously noticed it. "That is true, it is fine
weather--and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little."
Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her
black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored
during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant.
To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned,
and whom he accused himself of having killed.
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