none the less there, and what despairing regret, what rage against
impotent and murderous science, and what a shock to his faith! He
returned home, livid, and did not make his appearance again until the
following day, after having remained sixteen hours shut up in his room,
lying in a semi-stupor on the bed, across which he had thrown himself,
dressed as he was.

On the afternoon of this day Clotilde, who was sitting beside him in the
study, sewing, ventured to break the oppressive silence. She looked up,
and saw him turning over the leaves of a book wearily, searching for
some information which he was unable to find.

"Master, are you ill? Why do you not tell me, if you are. I would take
care of you."

He kept his eyes bent upon the book, and muttered:

"What does it matter to you whether I am ill or not? I need no one to
take care of me."

She resumed, in a conciliating voice:

"If you have troubles, and can tell them to me, it would perhaps be a
relief to you to do so. Yesterday you came in looking so sad. You must
not allow yourself to be cast down in that way. I have spent a very
anxious night. I came to your door three times to listen, tormented by
the idea that you were suffering."

Gently as she spoke, her words were like the cut of a whip. In his weak
and nervous condition a sudden access of rage made him push away the
book and rise up trembling.

"So you spy upon me, then. I cannot even retire to my room without
people coming to glue their ears to the walls. Yes, you listen even to
the beatings of my heart. You watch for my death, to pillage and burn
everything here."

His voice rose and all his unjust suffering vented itself in complaints
and threats.

"I forbid you to occupy yourself about me. Is there nothing else that
you have to say to me? Have you reflected? Can you put your hand in mine
loyally, and say to me that we are in accord?"

She did not answer. She only continued to look at him with her large
clear eyes, frankly declaring that she would not surrender yet, while
he, exasperated more and more by this attitude, lost all self-control.

"Go away, go away," he stammered, pointing to the door. "I do not wish
you to remain near me. I do not wish to have enemies near me. I do not
wish you to remain near me to drive me mad!"

She rose, very pale, and went at once out of the room, without looking
behind, carrying her work with her.

During the month which followed, Pascal took refuge in