Though he entertained no very high opinion of himself, he certainly held fate responsible for his natural deficiencies.  He was poor, he reasoned, and therefore had no right to fall in love.  Ah! if only he were wealthy and familiar with all the things idle, prosperous people know, how entirely the splendour of his material surroundings would be in harmony with the splendour of his passion!  What blundering, ferocious god of cruelty had immured in the dungeon of poverty this soul of his that so overflowed with desires?

He opened his window and caught sight of his father’s apprentice on his way back to the workshop.  The lad stood there on the pavement talking with naive effrontery to a little book-stitcher of his acquaintance.  He was kissing the girl, without a thought of the passers-by, and whistling a tune between his teeth.  The pretty, sickly-looking slattern carried her rags with an air, and wore a pair of smart, well-made boots; she was pretending to push her admirer away, while really doing just the opposite, for the slim yet broad-shouldered stripling in his blue blouse had a certain townified elegance and the “conquering hero” air of the suburban dancing-saloons.  When he left her, she looked back repeatedly; but he was examining the saveloys in a pork-butcher’s window, never giving another thought to the girl.

Jean, as he looked on at the little scene, found himself envying his father’s apprentice.

XVI

He read the same morning on the posters that she was playing that evening.  He watched for her after the performance and saw her distributing hand-shakes to sundry acquaintances before driving off.  He was suddenly struck with something hard and cruel in her, which he had not observed in the interview of the night before.  Then he discovered that he hated her, abominated her with all the force of his mind and muscles and nerves.  He longed to tear her to pieces, to rend and crush her.  It made him furious to think she was moving, talking, laughing,—­in a word, that she was alive.  At least it was only fair she should suffer, that life should wound her and make her heart bleed.  He was rejoiced at the thought that she must die one day, and then nothing of her would be left, of her rounded shape and the warmth of her flesh; none would ever again see the superb play of light in her hair and eyes, the reflections, now pale, now pearly, of her dead-white skin.  But her body, that filled him with such rage, would be young and warm and supple for long years yet, and lover after lover would feel it quiver and awake to passion.  She would exist for other men, but not for him.  Was that to be borne?  Ah! the deliciousness of plunging a dagger in that warm, living bosom!  Ah! the bliss, the voluptuousness of holding her pinned beneath one knee and demanding between two stabs: 

“Am I ridiculous now?”

He was still muttering suchlike maledictions when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder.  Wheeling round, he saw a quaint figure—­a huge nose like a pothook, high, massive shoulders, enormous, well-shaped hands, a general impression of uncouthness combined with vigour and geniality.  He thought for a moment where this strange monster could have come from; then he shouted:  “Garneret!”