that quiet fashion, he
looked at her. The assassin was herself, he no longer doubted it. And at
that moment he felt a craving to proclaim it, to cry it aloud.

"Why, he thought that he had begged you to remain there on the watch,"
Beauchene resumed, addressing his wife.

"At all events his words never reached me," Constance duly answered.
"Should I have moved if he had asked me to do that?" And turning towards
the accountant she, in her turn, had the courage to fix her pale eyes
upon him. "Just remember, Morange, you rushed down like a madman, you
said nothing to me, and I went on my way."

Beneath those pale eyes, keen as steel, which dived into his own,
Morange was seized with abject fear. All his weakness, his cowardice
of heart returned. Could he accuse her of such an atrocious crime? He
pictured the consequences. And then, too, he no longer knew if he were
right or not; his poor maniacal mind was lost.

"It is possible," he stammered, "I may simply have thought I spoke. And
it must be so since it can't be otherwise."

Then he relapsed into silence with a gesture of utter lassitude. The
complicity demanded was accepted. For a moment he thought of rising to
see if Blaise still breathed; but he did not dare. Deep peacefulness
fell upon the room.

Ah! how great was the anguish, the torture in the cab, when Blaise
brought Mathieu and Marianne back with him. He had at first spoken to
them simply of an accident, a rather serious fall. But as the vehicle
rolled along he had lost his self-possession, weeping and confessing the
truth in response to their despairing questions. Thus, when they at last
reached the factory, they doubted no longer, their child was dead. Work
had just been stopped, and they recalled their visit to the place on the
morrow of Maurice's death. They were returning to the same stillness,
the same grave-like silence. All the rumbling life had suddenly ceased,
the machines were cold and mute, the workshops darkened and deserted.
Not a sound remained, not a soul, not a puff of that steam which was
like the very breath of the place. He who had watched over its work was
dead, and it was dead like him. Then their affright increased when they
passed from the factory to the house amid that absolute solitude, the
gallery steeped in slumber, the staircase quivering, all the doors
upstairs open, as in some uninhabited place long since deserted. In the
ante-room they found no servant. And it was indeed in t