However, during the afternoon his leg became very painful;
latterly he had been feeling in ill-health, and he had to use a stick so
as not to limp too outrageously. This stick grieved him sorely, and he
declared with angry despair that he was now no better than a pensioner.
However, toward the evening, making a strong effort, he pulled himself
out of his armchair and, leaning heavily on his stick, dragged himself
through the darkness to the Rue des Recollets, which he reached about
nine o'clock. The street door was still unlocked, and on going up he
stood panting on the third landing, when he heard voices on the upper
floor. One of these voices was Burle's, so he fancied, and out of
curiosity he ascended another flight of stairs. Then at the end of a
passage on the left he saw a ray of light coming from a door which stood
ajar. As the creaking of his boots resounded, this door was sharply
closed, and he found himself in the dark.
"Some cook going to bed!" he muttered angrily. "I'm a fool."
All the same he groped his way as gently as possible to the door and
listened. Two people were talking in the room, and he stood aghast,
for it was Burle and that fright Rose! Then he listened, and the
conversation he heard left him no doubt of the awful truth.
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