The concierge related the tale of his return and the locksmith.

The mother, heart-stricken, went back a changed woman.

White as the linen of her chemise, she walked as we might fancy a spectre walks, slowly, noiselessly, moved by some superhuman power, and yet mechanically.

She held a candle in her hand, whose light fell full upon her face and showed her eyes, fixed with horror.

Unconsciously, her hands by a desperate movement had dishevelled the hair about her brow; and this made her so beautiful with anguish that Joseph stood rooted in awe at the apparition of that remorse, the vision of that statue of terror and despair.
"My aunt," she said, "take my silver forks and spoons.