But the street was
silent, and deciding that she had been mistaken, she went back to
bed laughing at herself for her fears; and at last she fell
asleep. But judge of her terror in the morning when, on rising to
let the servant in, she saw Pascal's candle still standing on the
buffet. Was it possible that he had not returned? She hastened to
his room--he was not there. And it was nearly eight o'clock.
This was the first time that Pascal had spent a night from home
without warning his mother in advance; and such an act on the part
of a man of his character was sufficient proof that something
extraordinary had occurred. In an instant all the dangers that
lurk in Paris after nightfall flashed through her mind. She
remembered all the stories she had read of men decoyed into dark
corners, of men stabbed at the turn of some deserted street, or
thrown into the Seine while crossing one of the bridges. What
should she do? Her first impulse was to run to the Commissary of
Police's office or to the house of Pascal's friend; but on the
other hand, she dared not go out, for fear he might return in her
absence. Thus, in an agony of suspense, she waited--counting the
seconds by the quick throbbings of her temples, and straining her
ears to catch the slightest sound.
At last, about half-past eight o'clock, she heard a heavy,
uncertain footfall on the stairs. She flew to the door and beheld
her son. His clothes were torn and disordered; his cravat was
missing, he wore no overcoat, and he was bareheaded.
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