"
Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with many
professions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission.
Then they parted. "Au revoir, till to-morrow "--"Yes, yes, till
to-morrow, au revoir."
Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wife
Valerie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine. Yet
it always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, for he
had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retired life,
giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable. On the other
hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correct painstaking
accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as it were to the
office chair in which he had taken his seat every morning for thirty
years past. The truth was that his wife and his daughter had carried off
with them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, all that he had
momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes--a large fortune and a
luxurious triumphant life. He, who was now so much alone, who had
relapsed into childish timidity and weakness, sought nothing beyond his
humble daily task, and was content to die in the shady corner to which he
was accustomed.
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