And his words fell one by one, tremulous with stifled tears, in that mournful _salon_, like sounds from afar, dying away in a dead world where there was no echo left.
Madame de Quinsac turned towards M.de Morigny, but he seemed to take no interest in it all.

He was gazing fixedly at the fire, with the haughty air of a stranger who was indifferent to the things and beings in whose midst an error of time compelled him to live.

But feeling that the glance of the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him he raised his head; and then their eyes met for a moment with an expression of infinite gentleness, the mournful gentleness of their heroic love.
"_Mon Dieu_!" said she, "I know your merits, Monsieur l'Abbe, and I won't refuse my help to one of your good works." Then she went off for a moment, and returned with a card on which she had written that she supported with all her heart Monsieur l'Abbe Froment in the steps he was taking.

And he thanked her and went off delighted, as if he carried yet a fresh hope of salvation from that drawing-room where, as he retired, gloom and silence once more seemed to fall on that old lady and her last faithful friends gathered around the fire, last relics of a world that was soon to disappear.
Once outside, Pierre joyfully climbed into his cab again, after giving the Princess de Harn's address in the Avenue Kleber.

If he could also obtain her approval he would no longer doubt of success.