But in another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and a chemist, swears to himself that he will commit an expiatory murder." He rose and said good-night.
She called him back.
"Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious.

Bring Choulette to me." When she went up to her room, her husband was waiting for her, in his red-brown plush robe, with a sort of doge's cap framing his pale and hollow face.

He had an air of gravity.

Behind him, by the open door of his workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of documents bound in blue, a collection of the annual budgets.

Before she could reach her room he motioned that he wished to speak to her.
"My dear, I can not understand you.