The lady’s maid had persuaded Georges to go back home to sleep, and upstairs in the drawing room only Satin remained. She lay stretched on a divan, smoking a cigarette and scanning the ceiling. Amid the household scare which had followed the accident she had been white with rage, had shrugged her shoulders violently and had made ferocious remarks. Accordingly, when Zoé was passing in front of her and telling Monsieur that poor, dear Madame had suffered a great deal: “That’s right; it’ll teach him!” said Satin curtly. They turned round in surprise, but she had not moved a muscle; her eyes were still turned toward the ceiling, and her cigarette was still wedged tightly between her lips. “Dear me, you’re charming, you are!” said Zoé. But Satin sat up, looked savagely at the count and once more hurled her remark at him. “That’s right; it’ll teach him!” And she lay down again and blew forth a thin jet of smoke, as though she had no interest in present events and were resolved not to meddle in any of them. No, it was all too silly! Zoé, however, introduced Muffat into the bedroom, where a scent of ether lingered amid warm, heavy silence, scarce broken by the dull roll of occasional carriages in the Avenue de Villiers. Nana, looking very white on her pillow, was lying awake with wide-open, meditative eyes. She smiled when she saw the count but did not move. “Ah, dear pet!” she slowly murmured. “I really thought I should never see you again.” Then as he leaned forward to kiss her on the hair, she grew tender toward him and spoke frankly about the child, as though he were its father. “I never dared tell you; I felt so happy about it! Oh, I used to dream about it; I should have liked to be worthy of you! And now there’s nothing left. Ah well, perhaps that’s best. I don’t want to bring a stumbling block into your life.” Astounded by this story of paternity, he began stammering vague phrases. He had taken a chair and had sat down by the bed, leaning one arm on the coverlet. Then the young woman noticed his wild expression, the blood reddening his eyes, the fever that set his lips aquiver. “What’s the matter then?” she asked. “You’re ill too.” “No,” he answered with extreme difficulty. She gazed at him with a profound expression. Then she signed to Zoé to retire, for the latter was lingering round arranging the medicine bottles. And when they were alone she drew him down to her and again asked: “What’s the matter with you, darling? The tears are ready to burst from your eyes—I can see that quite well. Well now, speak out; you’ve come to tell me something.”