Madame Nanteuil listened to him serenely, with that gentle determination not to know anything, which had been her one talent in life. "Another dreadful thing," she observed, "is to decide what to have to eat. Felicie is sick of everything. There's no knowing what to get for her." After that, the flagging conversation languished, drawn out into detached phrases, which had no particular meaning. Madame Nanteuil, the servant, the coke fire, the lamp, the plate of sausage, awaited Felicie in depressing silence. The clock struck one. Chevalier's suffering had by this time attained the serenity of a flood tide. He was now certain. The cabs were not so frequent and their wheels echoed more loudly along the street. The rumbling of one of these cabs suddenly ceased outside the house. A few seconds later he heard the slight grating of a key in the lock, the slamming of the door, and light footsteps in the outer room. The clock marked twenty-three minutes past one. He was suddenly full of agitation, yet hopeful. She had come! Who could tell what she would say? She might offer the most natural explanation of her late arrival. Felicie entered the room, her hair in disorder, her eyes shining, her cheeks white, her bruised lips a vivid red; she was tired, indifferent, mute, happy and lovely, seeming to guard beneath her cloak, which she held wrapped about her with both hands, some remnant of warmth and voluptuous pleasure. "I was beginning to be worried," said her mother. "Aren't you going to unfasten your cloak?" "I'm hungry," she replied. She dropped into a chair before the little round table. Throwing her cloak over the back of the chair, she revealed her slender figure in its little black schoolgirl's dress, and, resting her left elbow on the oil-cloth table-cover, she proceeded to stick her fork into the sliced sausage. "Did everything go off well to-night?" asked Madame Nanteuil. "Quite well." "You see Chevalier has come to keep you company. It is kind of him, isn't it?" "Oh, Chevalier! Well, let him come to the table." And, without replying further to her mother's questions, she began to eat, greedy and charming, like Ceres in the old woman's house. Then she pushed aside her plate, and leaning back in her chair, with half-closed eyes, and parted lips, she smiled a smile that was akin to a kiss. Madame Nanteuil, having drunk her glass of mulled wine, rose to her feet. "You will excuse me, Monsieur Chevalier, I have my accounts to bring up to date." This was the formula which she usually employed to announce that she was going to bed. Left alone with Felicie, Chevalier said to her angrily: "I know I'm a fool and a groveller; but I'm going mad for love of you. Do you hear, Felicie?" "I should think I do hear. You needn't shout like that!" "It's ridiculous, isn't it?" "No, it's not ridiculous, it's----" She did not complete the sentence. He drew nearer to her, dragging his chair with him.