Thus disfigured, she turned toward
the count.
"Do look! My head'll be quite small, it will!"
At this he grew vexed.
"You're mad; come to bed!"
He fancied he saw her in a grave, emaciated by a century of sleep, and
he joined his hands and stammered a prayer. It was some time ago that
the religious sense had reconquered him, and now his daily access of
faith had again assumed the apoplectic intensity which was wont to leave
him well-nigh stunned. The joints of his fingers used to crack, and he
would repeat without cease these words only: "My God, my God, my God!"
It was the cry of his impotence, the cry of that sin against which,
though his damnation was certain, he felt powerless to strive. When Nana
returned she found him hidden beneath the bedclothes; he was haggard; he
had dug his nails into his bosom, and his eyes stared upward as though
in search of heaven. And with that she started to weep again. Then they
both embraced, and their teeth chattered they knew not why, as the same
imbecile obsession over-mastered them. They had already passed a similar
night, but on this occasion the thing was utterly idiotic, as Nana
declared when she ceased to be frightened. She suspected something, and
this caused her to question the count in a prudent sort of way.
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