me dark with that
sinister thrill, that deathlike quiver, which each twilight causes to
pass over the earth. This evening gloom, entering the open window,
penetrated the two souls, but lately so lively, of the now silent pair.

They had drawn more closely together to watch the dying day. At Nantes
the railway people had lit the little oil lamp, which shed its yellow,

trembling light upon the drab cloth of the cushions. Duroy passed his
arms round the waist of his wife, and clasped her to him. His recent
keen desire had become a softened one, a longing for consoling little
caresses, such as we lull children with.

He murmured softly: "I shall love you very dearly, my little Made."

The softness of his voice stirred the young wife, and caused a rapid
thrill to run through her. She offered her mouth, bending towards him,
for he was resting his cheek upon the warm pillow of her bosom, until
the whistle of the train announced that they were nearing a station. She
remarked, flattening the ruffled locks about her forehead with the tips
of her fingers: "It was very silly. We are quite childish."

But he was kissing her hands in turn with feverish rapidity, and
replied: "I adore you, my little Made."

Until they reached Rouen they remained almost motionless, cheek against
cheek, their eyes turned to the window, through which, from time to
time, the lights of houses could be seen in the darkness, satisfied with
feeling themselves so close to one another, and with the growing
anticipation of a freer and more intimate embrace.

They put up at a hotel overlooking the quay, and went to bed after a
very hurried supper.

The chambermaid aroused them next morning as it was striking eight. When
they had drank the cup of tea she had placed on the night-table, Duroy
looked at his wife, then suddenly, with the joyful impulse of the
fortunate man who has just found a treasure, he clasped her in his arms,
exclaiming: "My little Made, I am sure that I love you ever so much,
ever so much, ever so much."

She smiled with her confident and satisfied smile, and murmured, as she
returned his kisses: "And I too--perhaps."

But he still felt uneasy about the visit of his parents. He had already
forewarned his wife, had prepared and lectured her, but he thought fit
to do so again.

"You know," he said, "they are only rustics--country rustics, not
theatrical ones."

She laughed.

"But I know that: you have told me so often enough. Co