And then mechanically he returned to Nana's house. Outside he slipped,
and he felt the tears welling to his eyes again, but he was not angry
with his lot--he was only feeble and ill. Yes, he was too tired; the
rain had wet him too much; he was nipped with cold, but the idea of
going back to his great dark house in the Rue Miromesnil froze his
heart. The house door at Nana's was not open as yet, and he had to wait
till the porter made his appearance. He smiled as he went upstairs,
for he already felt penetrated by the soft warmth of that cozy retreat,
where he would be able to stretch his limbs and go to sleep.

When Zoe opened the door to him she gave a start of most uneasy
astonishment. Madame had been taken ill with an atrocious sick headache,
and she hadn't closed her eyes all night. Still, she could quite go and
see whether Madame had gone to sleep for good. And with that she slipped
into the bedroom while he sank back into one of the armchairs in the
drawing room. But almost at that very moment Nana appeared. She had
jumped out of bed and had scarce had time to slip on a petticoat. Her
feet were bare, her hair in wild disorder, her nightgown all crumpled.

"What! You here again?" she cried with a red flush on her cheeks.

Up she rushed, stung by sudden indignation, in order herself to thrust
him out of doors. But when she saw him in such sorry plight--nay, so
utterly done for--she felt infinite pity.

"Well, you are a pretty sight, my dear fellow!" she continued more
gently. "But what's the matter? You've spotted them, eh? And it's given
you the hump?"

He did not answer; he looked like a broken-down animal. Nevertheless,