“It is the rain,” she said, “which causes the smoke.”

Madame Martin said it was not worth while to make a fire, that she did not feel cold.

She saw herself in the glass.

She was livid, with glowing spots on her cheeks.  Then only she felt that her feet were frozen.  She approached the fire.  Madame Fusellier, seeing her anxious, spoke softly to her: 

“Monsieur Jacques will come soon.  Let Madame warm herself while waiting for him.”

A dim light fell with the rain on the glass ceiling.

Upon the wall, the lady with the unicorn was not beautiful among the cavaliers in a forest full of flowers and 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.