execrable relations, he desired ardently at certain
times: as one desires unexpected gain, rare happiness, the stroke of
fortune which is to console and enrich forever. In the shock which his
other affections had received, his heart bled because it was too late.

One sultry night toward the end of September, Pascal found himself
unable to sleep. He opened one of the windows of his room; the sky
was dark, some storm must be passing in the distance, for there was a
continuous rumbling of thunder. He could distinguish vaguely the dark
mass of the plane trees, which occasional flashes of lightning detached,
in a dull green, from the darkness. His soul was full of anguish; he
lived over again the last unhappy days, days of fresh quarrels, of
torture caused by acts of treachery, by suspicions, which grew stronger
every day, when a sudden recollection made him start. In his fear of
being robbed, he had finally adopted the plan of carrying the key of the
large press in his pocket. But this afternoon, oppressed by the heat, he
had taken off his jacket, and he remembered having seen Clotilde hang
it up on a nail in the study. A sudden pang of terror shot through him,
sharp and cold as a steel point; if she had felt the key in the pocket
she had stolen it. He hastened to search the jacket which he had a
little before thrown upon a chair; the key was not here. At this very
moment he was being robbed; he had the clear conviction of it. Two
o'clock struck. He did not again dress himself, but, remaining in his
trousers only, with his bare feet thrust into slippers, his chest bare
under his unfastened nightshirt, he hastily pushed open the door, and
rushed into the workroom, his candle in his hand.

"Ah! I knew it," he cried. "Thief! Assassin!"

It was true; Clotilde was there, undressed like himself, her bare feet
covered by canvas slippers, her legs bare, her arms bare, her shoulders
bare, clad only in her chemise and a short skirt. Through caution, she
had not brought a candle. She had contented herself with opening one of
the window shutters, and the continual lightning flashes of the storm
which was passing southward in the dark sky, sufficed her, bathing
everything in a livid phosphorescence. The old press, with its broad
sides, was wide open. Already she had emptied the top shelf, taking down
the papers in armfuls, and throwing them on the long table in the middle
of the room, where they lay in a confused heap. And with feveri