He lay
perfectly motionless in the dirty, greasy vehicle. His body, which
followed every jolt, scarcely allayed by the worn-out springs, rolled
from one side to the other and his head oscillated on his shoulders,
as if the muse of his neck were broken. He thought of Widow Lerouge. He
recalled her as she was when he went with his father to La Jonchere. It
was in the spring-time; and the hawthorn blossoms scented the air.
The old woman, in a white cap, stood at her garden gate: she spoke
beseechingly. The count looked sternly at her as he listened, then,
taking some gold from his purse, he gave it to her.
On arriving at their destination they lifted him out of the cab, the
same way as they had lifted him in at starting.
During the formality of entering his name in the jail-book in the dingy,
stinking record office, and whilst replying mechanically to everything,
he gave himself up with delight to recollections of Claire. He went back
to the time of the early days of their love, when he doubted whether he
would ever have the happiness of being loved by her in return; when they
used to meet at Mademoiselle Goello's.
This old maid had a house on the left bank of the Seine furnished in
the most eccentric manner.
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