The man held his peace, the woman spoke no word, the young girl did not even seem to breathe.
The scratching of the pen on the paper was audible.
The man grumbled, without pausing in his writing.
"Canaille! canaille! everybody is canaille!"
This variation to Solomon''s exclamation elicited a sigh from the woman.
"Calm yourself, my little friend," she said.
"Don''t hurt yourself, my dear.
You are too good to write to all those people, husband."
Bodies press close to each other in misery, as in cold, but hearts draw apart.
This woman must have loved this man, to all appearance, judging from the amount of love within her; but probably, in the daily and reciprocal reproaches of the horrible distress which weighed on the whole group, this had become extinct.
There no longer existed in her anything more than the ashes of affection for her husband.
Nevertheless, caressing appellations had survived, as is often the case.
She called him:
My dear, my little friend, my good man, etc., with her mouth while her heart was silent.