could read no other expression on their features. Neither of them spoke to him; they merely stood aside to let him pass by, as usual, nothing more. As he passed by M. Noirtier’s room, he perceived two figures through the half-open door; but he experienced no curiosity to know who was visiting his father; anxiety carried him on further.
“Come,” he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife’s room, “nothing is changed here.”
He then closed the door of the landing.
“No one must disturb us,” he said; “I must speak freely to her, accuse myself, and say”—he approached the door, touched the crystal handle, which yielded to his hand. “Not locked,” he cried; “that is well.”
And he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for though the child went to school during the day, his