Nevertheless, Mathieu still strove to doubt; before
anything else he wished to see Constance.
Showing a waxy pallor, she had remained erect, motionless, in the middle
of her little drawing-room. The waiting of fourteen years previously had
begun once more, lasting on and on, and filling her with such anxiety
that she held her breath the better to listen. Nothing, no stir, no sound
of footsteps, had yet ascended from the works. What could be happening
then? Was the hateful thing, the dreaded thing, merely a nightmare after
all? Yet Morange had really sneered in her face, she had fully understood
him. Had not a howl, the thud of a fall, just reached her ears? And now,
had not the rumbling of the machinery ceased? It was death, the factory
silent, chilled and lost for her. All at once her heart ceased beating as
she detected a sound of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer with
increased rapidity. The door opened, and it was Mathieu who came in.
She recoiled, livid, as at the sight of a ghost. He, O God! Why he? How
was it he was there? Of all the messengers of misfortune he was the one
whom she had least expected. Had the dead son risen before her she would
not have shuddered more dreadfully than she did at this apparition of the
father.
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