Her thoughts wandered amidst these agonies and uncertainties. A pain began in her head; her ideas became painful and disturbed. She worried herself by trying to work things out; grew mad at not knowing. She looked at the clock; it was past one. She said to herself: “I cannot remain like this, I shall go mad. I must know. I will wake up Susan and question her.”
She went barefooted, in order not to make a noise, and with a candle in her hand, towards her daughter’s room. She opened the door softly, went in, and looked at the bed. She did not comprehend matters at first, and thought that the girl might still be arguing with her father. But all at once a horrible suspicion crossed her mind, and she rushed to her husband’s room. She reached it in a bound, blanched and panting. He was in bed reading.
He asked, startled: “Well, what is it? What is the matter with you?”
She stammered: “Have you seen Susan?”
“I? No. Why?”
“She has—she has—gone! She is not in her room.”
He sprang onto the carpet, thrust his feet into his slippers, and, with his shirt tails floating in the air, rushed in turn to his daughter’s room. As soon as he saw it, he no longer retained any doubt. She had fled. He dropped into a chair and placed his lamp on the ground in front of him.
His wife had rejoined him, and stammered: “Well?”
He had no longer the strength to reply; he was no longer enraged, he only groaned: “It is done; he has got her. We are done for.”
She did not understand, and said: “What do you mean? done for?”
“Yes, by Jove! He will certainly marry her now.”