years had gone by since the
death of his wife Valerie, more than twenty since his daughter Reine
had joined her, and he still ever lived on in his methodical, punctual
manner, amid the downfall of his existence. Never had man suffered more
than he, passed through greater tragedies, experienced keener remorse,
and withal he came and went in a careful, correct way, ever and ever
prolonging his career of mediocrity, like one whom many may have
forgotten, but whom keenness of grief has preserved.

Nevertheless Morange had evidently sustained some internal damage of a
nature to cause anxiety. He was lapsing into the most singular manias.
While obstinately retaining possession of the over-large flat which he
had formerly occupied with his wife and daughter, he now lived there
absolutely alone; for he had dismissed his servant, and did his own
marketing, cooking, and cleaning. For ten years nobody but himself had
been inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there.
But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed even
to cross the threshold. Moreover, although the old accountant, who was
now white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulously
clean of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which he
must have spent his evenings in repairing. Such, too, was his maniacal,
sordid avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart from
the money which he paid for his bread--bread of the commonest kind,
which he purchased every four days and ate when it was stale, in order
that he might make it last the longer. This greatly puzzled the people
who were acquainted with him, and never a week went by without the
house-porter propounding the question: "When a gentleman of such quiet
habits earns eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spends
a cent, what can he do with his money?" Some folks even tried to reckon
up the amount which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thought
that it might perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs.

But more serious trouble declared itself. He was twice snatched away
from certain death. One day, when Denis was returning homewards across
the Grenelle bridge he perceived Morange leaning far over the parapet,
watching the flow of the water, and all ready to make a plunge if he
had not been grasped by his coat-tails. The poor man, on recovering his
self-possession, began to laugh in his gentle way, and talked