staggered, stretched out his hands, met a wall
which supported him and began to stumble along. From time to time a gust
of wind would sweep through the street, pushing him forward, making him
run for a few steps; then, when the wind would die down, he would stop
short, having lost his impetus, and once more he would begin to stagger
on his unsteady drunkard's legs.

He went instinctively toward his home, just as birds go to their nests.
Finally he recognized his door, and began to feel about for the keyhole
and tried to put the key in it. Not finding the hole, he began to swear.
Then he began to beat on the door with his fists, calling for his wife to
come and help him:

"Melina! Oh, Melina!"

As he leaned against the door for support, it gave way and opened, and
Jeremie, losing his prop, fell inside, rolling on his face into the
middle of his room, and he felt something heavy pass over him and escape
in the night.

He was no longer moving, dazed by fright, bewildered, fearing the devil,
ghosts, all the mysterious beings of darkness, and he waited a long time
without daring to move. But when he found out that nothing else was
moving, a little reason returned to him, the reason of a drunkard.

Gently he sat up. Again he waited a long time, and at last, growing
bolder, he called:

"Melina!"

His wife did not answer.

Then, suddenly, a suspicion crossed his darkened mind, an indistinct,
vague suspicion. He was not moving; he was sitting there in the dark,
trying to gather together his scattered wits, his mind stumbling over
incomplete ideas, just as his feet stumbled along.

Once more he asked:

"Who was it, Melina? Tell me who it was. I won't hurt you!"

He waited, no voice was raised in the darkness. He was now reasoning with
himself out loud.

"I'm drunk, all right! I'm drunk! And he filled me up, the dog; he did
it, to stop my goin' home. I'm drunk!"

And he would continue:

"Tell me who it was, Melina, or somethin'll happen to you."

After having waited again, he went on with the slow and obstinate logic
of a drunkard:

"He's been keeping me at that loafer Paumelle's place every night, so as
to stop my going home. It's some trick. Oh, you damned carrion!"

Slowly he got on his knees. A blind fury was gaining possession of him,
mingling with the fumes of alcohol.

He continued:

"Tell me who it was, Melina, or you'll get a licking--I warn you!"

He was now standing, trembling with a wild fur