Victor went up towards Montmartre, whilst Salvat hesitated like a man who is consulting destiny.

Then, as if trusting himself to stern chance, drawing up his thin figure, the figure of a weary, hungry toiler, he turned into the Rue Marcadet, and walked towards Paris, his tool-bag still under his arm.
For an instant Pierre felt a desire to run and call to him that his little girl wished him to go back again.

But the same feeling of uneasiness as before came over the priest--a commingling of discretion and fear, a covert conviction that nothing could stay destiny.

And he himself was no longer calm, no longer experienced the icy, despairing distress of the early morning.

On finding himself again in the street, amidst the quivering fog, he felt the fever, the glow of charity which the sight of such frightful wretchedness had ignited, once more within him.