umble of heart, and rather awkwardly kissed her cheek streaked
by tears and sullied by paint.

She started, shaken by a revulsion. The liquid blue of her eyes turned
sharp and aggressive, her lips narrowed; she held her little bag close
like booty. Then she departed, leaving the door open for the smoky
darkness of the landing to creep into my rooms. She had the untamable,
sullen expression of a hunted beast.

VIII

Twenty days passed without news.

When I woke up, the early sunlight had a reassuring effect, the morning
chattered familiarly, my terror of the night before took wings like a
fancy. Hope swelled within me.

The postman's ring, sharp, strident, unbearable, reopened the wound. I
rushed to the door. Nothing. A circular, an ordinary letter which I
didn't have the will to open.

* * * * *

It was exactly twenty-two days. I forced myself to sit down at the
table, but my courage was completely gone, and the alarms of the night
which haunted the room gripped me by the throat. Well, there would be
something to-morrow. It was impossible....

Anxiety, from the moment it began, made me neglect myself--no prinking,
no housework, dust powdering my furniture. The most I did was to turn
back my bedclothes. What did all these things matter? I wanted to sleep,
sleep....

Coming back from work I slipped into my flannel dressing gown and
slippers and let down my hair. I did not even take the time to warm up
my dinner prepared beforehand in the morning. The plate was on the
table, an orange, a piece of bread.... I'd eat.

I couldn't. The mouthfuls choked me. I couldn't do one thing. I was
overwhelmed, almost paralyzed, by an unconquerable weakness. I threw
myself in my armchair. I would put the room in order the next day. I
would work twice as hard, but not to-night....

Sleep....

Torpor gained complete possession of me. The darkness gathered, and when
the last streak of twilight came through the window fluttering on my
eyelids, a little hope returned.

After all, twenty-two days was not so terrible. Many people had had to
wait longer. Hadn't I had to wait sixteen days once? Letters get lost on
the way.

I visualized a scene--a hospital ward, a row of beds, white coverings,
nurses. How was it I had not thought of it before? Wounded!... A slight
wound which kept him from writing.... I welcomed the certainty. It was
so comforting that I tried to hold on to it by jumping right up