good-night to her or not. He avoided her gaze, slipped in between the sheets, keeping to the extreme edge of the bed.
It was she who switched out the light and said:
'Good-night, Emile.'
He made an effort.
'Good-night.'
Was he going to have to go to bed, each night for the rest of his life, under the same conditions?
Next morning, he went downstairs a few minutes earlier than usual, so as to be there before the arrival of Madame Lavaud.
'What did she say?'
'You're staying.'
'Isn't she giving me the sack?'
Ada did not realize that this was acknowledging that Berthe was the real mistress of the house and that Emile had no say in the matter.
'No.'
A silence. She did not understand. Perhaps she did not try to understand? Yet she wanted to know where they stood.
'And us?'
'Nothing is changed.'
They caught the sound, still fairly far off, in the roadway, of Madame Lavaud's footsteps.
'I wonder whether I'll still be able to, now that she knows.'
Instantly he stiffened, and, without any precise reason, almost slapped her in the face, rapped in a dry voice:
'You will do what I tell you to do.'
'Yes.'
'Get the coffee.'
'All right.'
He did not ask her to come to him that day, for decency's sake, perhaps out of tact. He pretended to take no notice of Berthe, who affected the gestures of an automaton and only addressed him, in a neutral voice, about serving the customers.
After his siesta, he took the van and went into Cannes to see a girl, the first one he could find, in order to calm his nerves, and, by an ironical twist, he knocked at three doors before he found one at home.
'Whatever's the matter with you?'
'Nothing.'
'Been fighting with the wife?'
'Get undressed and shut up.'
On these occasions, he gave the impression of a petty cad, a thug of the kind one sees playing the tough guy in bars. A sentence was taking shape in his head, to which he did not yet attach any meaning, and he did not foresee that it was to become an obsession.
'I shall kill her!'
For now he hated her, not just for this or that reason, but for everything.
He no longer told himself that she had bought him, that there was nothing in her but pride and peasant rapaciousness.
He did not even dwell any longer on her attitude the day before, nor on the bargain she had proposed to him, or rather the conditions she had dictated.
The matter had gone beyond the stages of reason and sentiment. The sentence surged up from his subconscious, like something self-evident, an indisputable necessity.
'I shall kill her.'
He did not believe it, was not sketching any plans, did not feel himself to be a potential murderer.
'You're kind of queer today,' his partner remarked. 'Anyone would think you were looking for someone to pick a fight with. I'll be all covered in bruises later on the beach.'
He had to go home, because of the guests' dinner. He was a little anxious, as he went into the kitchen, for he was wondering whether Berthe had kept her word. Had she just said what she had, the evening before, to quieten him, and had she taken advantage of his absence to chase Ada out of the house?
Ada was there. Berthe was busy with her accounts. She was in her element. She would have been more lost if she had been deprived of her cash-desk than of her husband.
Had her mother been unhappy, since the death of Big Louis? She had gone back to her sister and her niece, into their spinster world, as a fish drawn for a moment from the water would return wriggling to its own element.
It made little difference if he were being unjust.
'I shall kill her/'
This time, he said it to himself in front of her, looking at her, with her head bent over her papers, and it was already more serious.
No fibre in him trembled, nor pity, nor feeling of any kind.
Once again, it was not a project, nor even a resolve. It remained vague, outside the realm of consciousness.
He was not living, at the moment, in a solid world, but in a kind of luminous mist where objects and
It was she who switched out the light and said:
'Good-night, Emile.'
He made an effort.
'Good-night.'
Was he going to have to go to bed, each night for the rest of his life, under the same conditions?
Next morning, he went downstairs a few minutes earlier than usual, so as to be there before the arrival of Madame Lavaud.
'What did she say?'
'You're staying.'
'Isn't she giving me the sack?'
Ada did not realize that this was acknowledging that Berthe was the real mistress of the house and that Emile had no say in the matter.
'No.'
A silence. She did not understand. Perhaps she did not try to understand? Yet she wanted to know where they stood.
'And us?'
'Nothing is changed.'
They caught the sound, still fairly far off, in the roadway, of Madame Lavaud's footsteps.
'I wonder whether I'll still be able to, now that she knows.'
Instantly he stiffened, and, without any precise reason, almost slapped her in the face, rapped in a dry voice:
'You will do what I tell you to do.'
'Yes.'
'Get the coffee.'
'All right.'
He did not ask her to come to him that day, for decency's sake, perhaps out of tact. He pretended to take no notice of Berthe, who affected the gestures of an automaton and only addressed him, in a neutral voice, about serving the customers.
After his siesta, he took the van and went into Cannes to see a girl, the first one he could find, in order to calm his nerves, and, by an ironical twist, he knocked at three doors before he found one at home.
'Whatever's the matter with you?'
'Nothing.'
'Been fighting with the wife?'
'Get undressed and shut up.'
On these occasions, he gave the impression of a petty cad, a thug of the kind one sees playing the tough guy in bars. A sentence was taking shape in his head, to which he did not yet attach any meaning, and he did not foresee that it was to become an obsession.
'I shall kill her!'
For now he hated her, not just for this or that reason, but for everything.
He no longer told himself that she had bought him, that there was nothing in her but pride and peasant rapaciousness.
He did not even dwell any longer on her attitude the day before, nor on the bargain she had proposed to him, or rather the conditions she had dictated.
The matter had gone beyond the stages of reason and sentiment. The sentence surged up from his subconscious, like something self-evident, an indisputable necessity.
'I shall kill her.'
He did not believe it, was not sketching any plans, did not feel himself to be a potential murderer.
'You're kind of queer today,' his partner remarked. 'Anyone would think you were looking for someone to pick a fight with. I'll be all covered in bruises later on the beach.'
He had to go home, because of the guests' dinner. He was a little anxious, as he went into the kitchen, for he was wondering whether Berthe had kept her word. Had she just said what she had, the evening before, to quieten him, and had she taken advantage of his absence to chase Ada out of the house?
Ada was there. Berthe was busy with her accounts. She was in her element. She would have been more lost if she had been deprived of her cash-desk than of her husband.
Had her mother been unhappy, since the death of Big Louis? She had gone back to her sister and her niece, into their spinster world, as a fish drawn for a moment from the water would return wriggling to its own element.
It made little difference if he were being unjust.
'I shall kill her/'
This time, he said it to himself in front of her, looking at her, with her head bent over her papers, and it was already more serious.
No fibre in him trembled, nor pity, nor feeling of any kind.
Once again, it was not a project, nor even a resolve. It remained vague, outside the realm of consciousness.
He was not living, at the moment, in a solid world, but in a kind of luminous mist where objects and
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