haussee-d'Antin, he noticed a tower looming vaguely in the fog at the
end of the Trinite Church. The white statues overlooking the bare garden
seemed like so many chilly Venuses among the yellow foliage of a park.
Under the porch he stood and panted a little, for the ascent of the wide
steps had tired him. Then he went in. The church was very cold, for its
heating apparatus had been fireless since the previous evening, and
its lofty, vaulted aisles were full of a fine damp vapor which had come
filtering through the windows. The aisles were deep in shadow; not a
soul was in the church, and the only sound audible amid the unlovely
darkness was that made by the old shoes of some verger or other who was
dragging himself about in sulky semiwakefulness. Muffat, however, after
knocking forlornly against an untidy collection of chairs, sank on his
knees with bursting heart and propped himself against the rails in
front of a little chapel close by a font. He clasped his hands and began
searching within himself for suitable prayers, while his whole being
yearned toward a transport. But only his lips kept stammering empty
words; his heart and brain were far away, and with them he returned to
the outer world and began his long, unresting march through the streets,
as though lashed forward by implacable necessity. And he kept repeating,
"O my God, come to my assistance! O my God, abandon not Thy creature,
who delivers himself up to Thy justice! O my God, I adore Thee: Thou
wilt not leave me to perish under the buffetings of mine enemies!"
Nothing answered: the shadows and the cold weighed upon him, and the
noise of the old shoes continued in the distance and prevented him
praying. Nothing, indeed, save that tiresome noise was audible in the
deserted church, where the matutinal sweeping was unknown before the
early masses had somewhat warmed the air of the place. After that he
rose to his feet with the help of a chair, his knees cracking under
him as he did so. God was not yet there. And why should he weep in M.
Venot's arms? The man could do nothing.

And then mechanically he returned to Nana's house. Outside he slipped,
and he felt the tears welling to his eyes again, but he was not angry
with his lot--he was only feeble and ill. Yes, he was too tired; the
rain had wet him too much; he was nipped with cold, but the idea of
going back to his great dark house in the Rue Miromesnil froze his
heart. The house door at Nana's was not open