people be so wicked?" and she burst into tears as she threw her arms around him.
"My dear girl," said he, much touched. "It is not worth all these tears. See, you are getting all muddy, you ought not to touch me."
"That does not matter," said she. "I have more spots than that on my conscience. Forgive me!"
"Forgive you for what? Why do you say such things?"
"Because I have been wicked to you myself; I haven't understood you--(I don't think I ever shall)--but I do know that whatever you do, you only mean what is right. I ought to have stood up for you and I have not done it. I was angry with your foolishness, but it is really I that was the fool, and it vexed me too, when you got everyone down on you. But now ... it is really too unjust! That a lot of men who are not fit to tie your shoe ... that they should strike you! Let me kiss your poor muddy face!"
It was so sweet to find each other again!--When she had had a good cry on Clerambault's neck, she helped him to dress, then she bathed his cheek with arnica, and carried off his clothes to brush them. At table her eyes dwelt on him with the old affectionate care, while he tried to calm her fears by talking of familiar things. To be alone together without the children took them back to the old days, the early times of their marriage. And the memory had a sad, quiet sweetness--as the evening angelus spreads through the growing gloom a last softened glory from the angelus of noon.
About ten o'clock the bell rang, and Moreau came in with his friend Gillot. They had read the evening papers which gave an account of the incident--from their point of view; some spoke of the "spontaneous" indignation of the crowd and approved of the rebuke inflicted by popular contempt. Others, and they were the more serious sheets,
