He felt a jealous
passion for the woman and was haunted by longings for her and her alone,
her hair, her mouth, her body. When he remembered the sound of her voice
a shiver ran through him; he longed for her as a miser might have done,
with refinements of desire beggaring description. He was, in fact, so
dolorously possessed by his passion that when Labordette had begun to
broach the subject of an assignation he had thrown himself into his
arms in obedience to irresistible impulse. Directly afterward he had, of
course, been ashamed of an act of self-abandonment which could not but
seem very ridiculous in a man of his position; but Labordette was one who
knew when to see and when not to see things, and he gave a further proof
of his tact when he left the count at the foot of the stairs and without
effort let slip only these simple words:
"The right-hand passage on the second floor. The door's not shut."
Muffat was alone in that silent corner of the house. As he passed before
the players' waiting room, he had peeped through the open doors and
noticed the utter dilapidation of the vast chamber, which looked
shamefully stained and worn in broad daylight. But what surprised him
most as he emerged from the darkness and confusion of the stage was
the pure, clear light and deep quiet at present pervading the lofty
staircase, which one evening when he had seen it before had been bathed
in gas fumes and loud with the footsteps of women scampering over
the different floors.
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