His salary had now risen to eight thousand
francs a year, and he certainly did not spend half of it. What became,
then, of his big savings, the money which he refused to devote to
enjoyment? In what secret hole, and for what purpose, what secret
passion, did he conceal it? Nobody could tell. But amid it all he
remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, continued very cleanly in
his habits, keeping his beard, which was now white as snow, very
carefully tended. And he came to his office every morning with a little
smile on his face, in such wise that nothing in this man of regular
methodical life revealed the collapse within him, all the ashes and
smoldering fire which disaster had left in his heart.
By degrees a link of some intimacy had been formed between Constance and
Morange. When, after his daughter's death, she had seen him return to the
works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with which some
covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled. Maurice was destined to live
five years longer, but she was already haunted by apprehensions, and
could never meet Morange without experiencing a chilling shudder, for he,
as she repeated to herself, had lost his only child.
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