his eyes
he saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd still
streamed along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu's temples were
beating, and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live the
same life as the others? He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it.
But the block in the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and
while he stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in that
increasing obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And all
at once the image of Seraphine faded from before his mind's eye and
he beheld another, his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, all
smiles and trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Could
he deceive her? ... Then all at once he again rushed off towards
the railway station, in fear lest he should lose his train. He was
determined that he would listen to no further promptings, that he would
cast no further glance upon glowing, dissolute Paris, and he reached
the station just in time to climb into a car. The train started and he
journeyed on, leaning out of his compartment and offering his face to
the cool night breeze in order that it might calm and carry off the evil
fever that had possessed him.

The night was moonless, but studded with such pure and such glowing
stars that the country could be seen spreading far away beneath a soft
bluish radiance. Already at twenty minutes past eleven Marianne
found herself on the little bridge crossing the Yeuse, midway between
Chantebled, the pavilion where she and her husband lived, and the
station of Janville. The children were fast asleep; she had left them
in the charge of Zoe, the servant, who sat knitting beside a lamp, the
light of which could be seen from afar, showing like a bright spark amid
the black line of the woods.

Whenever Mathieu returned home by the seven o'clock train, as was his
wont, Marianne came to meet him at the bridge. Occasionally she brought
her two eldest boys, the twins, with her, though their little legs
moved but slowly on the return journey when, in retracing their steps,
a thousand yards or more, they had to climb a rather steep hillside.
And that evening, late though the hour was, Marianne had yielded to
that pleasant habit of hers, enjoying the delight of thus going forward
through the lovely night to meet the man she worshipped. She never went
further than the bridge which arched over the narrow river. She seated
herself on it