It was over, quite over.
He breathed heavily and gazed round the room, suffocating beneath a crushing weight.

Memories kept recurring to him one after the other--memories of merry nights at La Mignotte, of amorous hours during which he had fancied himself her child, of pleasures stolen in this very room.

And now these things would never, never recur! He was too small; he had not grown up quickly enough; Philippe was supplanting him because he was a bearded man.

So then this was the end; he could not go on living.

His vicious passion had become transformed into an infinite tenderness, a sensual adoration, in which his whole being was merged.
Then, too, how was he to forget it all if his brother remained--his brother, blood of his blood, a second self, whose enjoyment drove him mad with jealousy?
It was the end of all things; he wanted to die.
All the doors remained open, as the servants noisily scattered over the house after seeing Madame make her exit on foot.