The young man was very much frightened. Did the doorkeeper suspect his relations with Berthe? He was perhaps watching them. Their attachment encountered continual obstacles in that house, where there was always some one prying about and the inmates of which professed the most strict principles.
It happened to be a Tuesday night when Octave discovered Monsieur Gourd watching close to his room. This increased his uneasiness. For a week past, he had been imploring Berthe to come up and join him in his apartment, when all the house would be asleep. Had the doorkeeper guessed this? Octave went back to his room dissatisfied, tormented with fear and desire.
The night was a close one, and, overcome by the heat, Octave had dozed off in an easy-chair, when toward midnight he was roused by a gentle knocking.
“It’s I,” faintly whispered a woman’s voice.
It was Berthe. He opened the door and clasped her in his arms in the obscurity. When he had lighted his candle, he saw that she was deeply troubled about something. The day before, not having sufficient money in his pocket, he had been unable to pay for the bonnet at the time: and as in her delight she had so far forgotten herself as to give her name, they had sent her the bill that evening. Then, trembling at the thought that they might call on the morrow when her husband was there, she had dared to come up, gathering courage from the great silence of the house, and confident that Rachel was asleep.
“To-morrow morning, you will be sure to pay it to-morrow morning, won’t you?” implored she, trying to escape.
She remained. The clock slowly struck the hours in the voluptuous warmth of the room; and, at each sound of the bell, he begged her so tenderly to stay, that her strength seemed to desert her and she yielded to his entreaties. Then, toward four o’clock, just as she had at length determined to go, they both dropped off to sleep locked in each other’s arms. When they again opened their eyes, the bright daylight was entering at the window, it was nine o’clock. Berthe uttered a cry.
Then ensued a moment of confusion. With her eyes half closed with sleep and fatigue, feeling vaguely about with her hands scarcely able to distinguish anything, she gave vent to stifled exclamations of regret. He, seized with a similar despair, had thrown himself before the door, to prevent her from going out at such an hour. Was she mad? people might meet her on the stairs, it was too risky; they must think the matter over, and devise a way for her to go down without being noticed. But she was obstinate, simply wishing to get away; and she again made for the door, which he defended. Then he thought of the servants’ staircase. Nothing could be more convenient; she could go quickly through her own kitchen into her apartment. Only, as Marie Pichon was always in the passage of a morning, Octave considered it prudent to divert her attention, whilst the other young woman made her escape.