She fancied the gendarmes^* entering the house, saying to her: ‘We want your daughter; give her up:’ the gendarmes with the severe, hard faces of men on duty. She knew the brigadier well—an old friend, familiar and respectful, saying heartily, ‘To your good health, madame!’ before lifting to his lips the small glass of cognac—out of the special bottle she kept for friends. And now! … She was losing her head. She rushed here and there, as if looking for something urgently needed—gave that up, stood stock still in the middle of the room, and screamed at her daughter:

‘Why? Say! Say! Why?’

The other seemed to leap out of her strange apathy.

‘Do you think I am made of stone?’ she shouted back, striding towards her mother.

‘No! It’s impossible …’ said Madame Levaille, in a convinced tone.

‘You go and see, mother,’ retorted Susan, looking at her with blazing eyes. ‘There’s no mercy in heaven—no justice. No! … I did not know. … Do you think I have no heart? Do you think I have never heard people jeering at me, pitying me, wondering at me? Do you know how some of them were calling me? The mother of idiots—that was my nickname! And my children never would know me, never speak to me. They would know nothing; neither men—nor God. Haven’t I prayed! But the Mother of God herself would not hear me. A mother! … Who is accursed—I, or the man who is dead? Eh? Tell me. I took care of myself. Do you think I would defy the anger of God and have my house full of those things—that are worse than animals who know the hand that feeds them? Who blasphemed in the night at the very church door? Was it I? … I only wept and prayed for mercy … and I feel the curse at every moment of the day—I see it round me from morning to night … I’ve got to keep them alive—to take care of my misfortune and shame. And he would come. I begged him and Heaven for mercy. … No! … Then we shall see. … He came this evening. I thought to myself: “Ah! again!” … I had my long scissors. I heard him shouting. … I saw him near. … I must—must I? … Then take! … And I struck him in the throat above the breast-bone. … I never heard him even sigh. … I left him standing. … It was a minute ago. … How did I come here?’

Madame Levaille shivered. A wave of cold ran down her back, down her fat arms under her tight sleeves, made her stamp gently where she stood. Quivers ran over the broad cheeks, across the thin lips, ran amongst the wrinkles at the corners of her steady old eyes. She stammered:

‘You wicked woman—you disgrace me. But there! You always resembled your father. What do you think will become of you … in the other world? In this … Oh misery!’

She was very hot now. She felt burning inside. She wrung her perspiring hands—and suddenly, starting in great haste, began to look for her big shawl and umbrella, feverishly, never once glancing at her daughter, who stood in the middle of the room following her with a gaze distracted and cold.

‘Nothing worse than in this,’ said Susan.

Her mother, umbrella in hand and trailing the shawl over the floor, groaned profoundly.

‘I must go to the priest,’ she burst out passionately. ‘I do not know whether you even speak the truth! You are a horrible woman. They will find you anywhere. You may stay here—or go. There is no room for you in this world.’

Ready now to depart, she yet wandered aimlessly about the room, putting the bottles on the shelf, trying to fit with trembling hands the covers on cardboard boxes. Whenever the real sense of what she had heard emerged for a second from the haze of her thoughts she would fancy that something had exploded in her brain without, unfortunately, bursting her head to pieces—which would have been a relief. She blew the candles out one by one without knowing it, and was horribly startled by the darkness. She fell on a bench and began to whimper. After a while she ceased, and sat listening to the breathing of her