Heaven was warning him; the misfortunes of Philippe and Georges were, he opined, prophetic of his proper ruin.

But neither the sight of Mme Hugon in tears nor that of the boy burning with fever had been strong enough to make him keep his vow, and the short-lived horror of the situation had only left behind it a sense of secret delight at the thought that he was now well quit of a rival, the charm of whose youth had always exasperated him.

His passion had by this time grown exclusive; it was, indeed, the passion of a man who has had no youth.
He loved Nana as one who yearned to be her sole possessor, to listen to her, to touch her, to be breathed on by her.

His was now a supersensual tenderness, verging on pure sentiment; it was an anxious affection and as such was jealous of the past and apt at times to dream of a day of redemption and pardon received, when both should kneel before God the Father.

Every day religion kept regaining its influence over him.
He again became a practicing Christian; he confessed himself and communicated, while a ceaseless struggle raged within him, and remorse redoubled the joys of sin and of repentance.