Only somebody told me this
morning certain things, which I must make sure of, and think over. When I
have done so I shall confide in you, you may rely on it, for I tell you
everything; besides which, I shall no doubt need your help. So have a
little patience, some evening you shall come to dinner with me here, and
we shall have the whole evening before us to chat at our ease. But ah!
_mon Dieu_! if it were only true, if it were only the miracle at last!"
More than three weeks elapsed before Morange heard anything further. He
saw that Constance was very thoughtful and very feverish, but he did not
even question her, absorbed as he himself was in the solitary, not to say
automatic, life which he had made for himself. He had lately completed
his sixty-ninth year; thirty years had gone by since the death of his
wife Valerie, more than twenty since his daughter Reine had joined her,
and he still ever lived on in his methodical, punctual manner, amid the
downfall of his existence. Never had man suffered more than he, passed
through greater tragedies, experienced keener remorse, and withal he came
and went in a careful, correct way, ever and ever prolonging his career
of mediocrity, like one whom many may have forgotten, but whom keenness
of grief has preserved.
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