And the feeling that they were now alone in that home, and the pale, sleepy gleam of the lamp, and the deep silence of the garden and the house, and the very past itself, all filled them with the softest of emotion blended with the keenest bitterness.
* See M.Zola's "Lourdes," Day I., Chapter II.
They would have liked to talk and unbosom themselves.

But what could they say to one another?
Although their hands remained so tightly clasped, did not the most impassable of chasms separate them?
In any case, they thought so.

Guillaume was convinced that Pierre was a saint, a priest of the most robust faith, without a doubt, without aught in common with himself, whether in the sphere of ideas or in that of practical life.

A hatchet-stroke had parted them, and each lived in a different world.

And in the same way Pierre pictured Guillaume as one who had lost caste, whose conduct was most suspicious, who had never even married the mother of his three children, but was on the point of marrying that girl who was far too young for him, and who had come nobody knew whence.