out, stood listening on the landing. Then he crept down the stairs. He quietly opened the kitchen door, peered round, there was nobody there. He saw the table, the coffee, the roll. He entered. Then on the chair he saw the bundle.
"I burnt your rags."
He picked up the piece of paper, read again.
"Burnt them. My God, she's burnt my uniform."
He picked up the bundle, opened it, let the garments fall slowly, one after the other. He watched them fall. A black suit and vest, a white muffler, a loud patterned check cap.
"She thinks I'm a peasant," he shouted, "she thinks I'm a peasant."
He sat down.
"They are both out. At the mass. Of course. Would I be happy if I went to mass? Would I be happy in my peasant's clothes?"
He shook with laughter.
"It means something else. 'Get out.' I shall."
He picked up the clothes and returned to his bedroom. He dressed, washed, he shaved, stared at himself in the mirror for some time. Then he went down and had his breakfast.
"Another day. Only the clock talking, sometimes I hate that clock so much I would like to dash it to pieces. They will come back, wearing their sackcloth. Words are so precious with them that I suppose if they pressed one out, it would bleed. They will soon be back from the mass, I had better get out."
He crossed to the hanging mirror and stared at it, the reflection in the glass attracted him.
"To-day I do not even know who I am," he played about with the peaked cap, "Marius you hardly know yourself."
He pulled down hard on the peak, gave a shrug of the shoulders, then quickly left the house by the rear door. It was turned ten o'clock. Two women were gossiping over a fence, a boy played in the gutter. He hurried away, but from time to time glanced behind him.
"I am getting into a bad habit," he thought.
He stood on the pavement edge, he looked West. Over there lay Heros, a big firm, if he went this morning it was possible that Philippe would scarcely recognise him. They had many ships. One might say one had tried for the last time, then try again. But suddenly he had turned on his heel and was hurrying off in another direction. He walked faster, then, hardly realizing it he began to run. And he did not stop until he had reached the tall ugly house on the corner.
There was the loose Michelin poster swinging away from the wall, and there in front of the door the battered-looking lamp that was never lighted. Its door was closed. He did not knock but pushed against it, and it did not give. He turned the handle, the door gave to him, he pushed and went inside. He stood still in the half darkened lobby, then he felt for the bolt and shot this back. The sound echoed through the house.
"Who is there?"
He recognised Madame's voice, but did not answer. He knew where he wanted to go. Mounting the three stairs he went off down a long narrow corridor. When he came to the door he wanted he heard voices, girls chattering. He gripped the handle and pushed, there was some resistance. Seized with a sudden fury he threw himself against it.
Behind it stood two naked women.
"Shift your great arse," Marius said, he still knew where to go, what he wanted, he had already seen her lying in the bed. She was still asleep.
"Lucy."
"Christ! She looks even more naked when she's asleep," staring down at her, the mouth was partly open, "I could not see her more clearly if she was split wide open."
"Lucy! Wake up."
He began shaking her. Behind him the two girls were still so astonished by the intrusion that they remained speechless.
"Here, you bitch, wake up," Marius shouted, "come on," his hands gripped her shoulders, "damn you for a bitch, wake up, was I talking in my sleep last night? Was I drunk, very drunk?"
Lucy slowly opened her eyes, then instinctively raised her hands and covered her bosom.
"Who the hell are you?"
"You know who I am. You knew last night, and the night before, tell me what did I say last night?"
"What do you want?"
The expression on her face angered him,
"I burnt your rags."
He picked up the piece of paper, read again.
"Burnt them. My God, she's burnt my uniform."
He picked up the bundle, opened it, let the garments fall slowly, one after the other. He watched them fall. A black suit and vest, a white muffler, a loud patterned check cap.
"She thinks I'm a peasant," he shouted, "she thinks I'm a peasant."
He sat down.
"They are both out. At the mass. Of course. Would I be happy if I went to mass? Would I be happy in my peasant's clothes?"
He shook with laughter.
"It means something else. 'Get out.' I shall."
He picked up the clothes and returned to his bedroom. He dressed, washed, he shaved, stared at himself in the mirror for some time. Then he went down and had his breakfast.
"Another day. Only the clock talking, sometimes I hate that clock so much I would like to dash it to pieces. They will come back, wearing their sackcloth. Words are so precious with them that I suppose if they pressed one out, it would bleed. They will soon be back from the mass, I had better get out."
He crossed to the hanging mirror and stared at it, the reflection in the glass attracted him.
"To-day I do not even know who I am," he played about with the peaked cap, "Marius you hardly know yourself."
He pulled down hard on the peak, gave a shrug of the shoulders, then quickly left the house by the rear door. It was turned ten o'clock. Two women were gossiping over a fence, a boy played in the gutter. He hurried away, but from time to time glanced behind him.
"I am getting into a bad habit," he thought.
He stood on the pavement edge, he looked West. Over there lay Heros, a big firm, if he went this morning it was possible that Philippe would scarcely recognise him. They had many ships. One might say one had tried for the last time, then try again. But suddenly he had turned on his heel and was hurrying off in another direction. He walked faster, then, hardly realizing it he began to run. And he did not stop until he had reached the tall ugly house on the corner.
There was the loose Michelin poster swinging away from the wall, and there in front of the door the battered-looking lamp that was never lighted. Its door was closed. He did not knock but pushed against it, and it did not give. He turned the handle, the door gave to him, he pushed and went inside. He stood still in the half darkened lobby, then he felt for the bolt and shot this back. The sound echoed through the house.
"Who is there?"
He recognised Madame's voice, but did not answer. He knew where he wanted to go. Mounting the three stairs he went off down a long narrow corridor. When he came to the door he wanted he heard voices, girls chattering. He gripped the handle and pushed, there was some resistance. Seized with a sudden fury he threw himself against it.
Behind it stood two naked women.
"Shift your great arse," Marius said, he still knew where to go, what he wanted, he had already seen her lying in the bed. She was still asleep.
"Lucy."
"Christ! She looks even more naked when she's asleep," staring down at her, the mouth was partly open, "I could not see her more clearly if she was split wide open."
"Lucy! Wake up."
He began shaking her. Behind him the two girls were still so astonished by the intrusion that they remained speechless.
"Here, you bitch, wake up," Marius shouted, "come on," his hands gripped her shoulders, "damn you for a bitch, wake up, was I talking in my sleep last night? Was I drunk, very drunk?"
Lucy slowly opened her eyes, then instinctively raised her hands and covered her bosom.
"Who the hell are you?"
"You know who I am. You knew last night, and the night before, tell me what did I say last night?"
"What do you want?"
The expression on her face angered him,
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