CHAPTER X.THE FAMILY OF PORTENDUERE.
Madame de Portenduere was at this moment alone with the abbe in her frigid little salon on the ground floor, having finished the recital of her troubles to the good priest, her only friend.

She held in her hand some letters which he had just returned to her after reading them; these letters had brought her troubles to a climax.

Seated on her sofa beside a square table covered with the remains of a dessert, the old lady was looking at the abbe, who sat on the other side of the table, doubled up in his armchair and stroking his chin with the gesture common to valets on the stage, mathematicians, and priests,--a sign of profound meditation on a problem that was difficult to solve.
This little salon, lighted by two windows on the street and finished with a wainscot painted gray, was so damp that the lower panels showed the geometrical cracks of rotten wood when the paint no longer binds it.
The red-tiled floor, polished by the old lady's one servant, required, for comfort's sake, before each seat small round mats of brown straw, on one of which the abbe was now resting his feet.

The old damask curtains of light green with green flowers were drawn, and the outside blinds had been closed.

Two wax candles lighted the table, leaving the rest of the room in semi-obscurity.