birds. Therese was repeating
to herself the words: "He has not yet come home." And by dint of saying
this she lost the meaning of it. With burning eyes she looked at the
door.

She remained thus without a movement, without a thought, for a time the
duration of which she did not know; perhaps half an hour. The noise of
a footstep came to her, the door was opened. He came in. She saw that he
was wet with rain and mud, and burning with fever.

She fixed on him a look so sincere and so frank that it struck him. But
almost at once he recalled within himself all his sufferings.

He said to her:

"What do you want of me? You have done me all the harm you could do me."

Fatigue gave him an air of gentleness. It frightened her.

"Jacques, listen to me!"

He motioned to her that he wished to hear nothing from her.

"Jacques, listen to me. I have not deceived you. Oh, no, I have not
deceived you. Was it possible? Was it--"

He interrupted her:

"Have some pity for me. Do not make me suffer again. Leave me, I pray
you. If you knew the night I have passed, you would not have the courage
to torment me again."

He let himself fall on the divan. He had walked all night. Not to suffer
too much, he had tried to find diversions. On the Bercy Quay he had
looked at the moon floating in the clouds. For an hour he had seen it
veil itself and reappear. Then he had counted the windows of houses with
minute care. The rain began to fall. He had gone to the market and had
drunk whiskey in a wine-room. A big girl who squinted had said to him,
"You don't look happy." He had fallen half asleep on the leather bench.
It had been a moment of oblivion. The images of that painful night
passed before his eyes. He said: "I recalled the night of the Arno. You
have spoiled for me all the joy and beauty in the world." He asked her
to leave him alone. In his lassitude he had a great pity for himself. He
would have liked to sleep--not to die; he held death in horror--but
to sleep and never to wake again. Yet, before him, as desirable
as formerly, despite the painful fixity of her dry eyes, and more
mysterious than ever, he saw her. His hatred was vivified by suffering.

She extended her arms to him. "Listen to me, Jacques." He motioned to
her that it was useless for her to speak. Yet he wished to listen to
her, and already he was listening with avidity. He detested and rejected
in advance what she would say, but nothing else in the world intereste