by Suzanne, she gave a bound, clutched the girl by
the throat and flung her back against the table. She quivered with rage
like an animal that at last holds its foe. She would have liked to
destroy that body which her husband had clasped in his arms, to tear it,
bite it, hurt it, hurt it as much as she could.

Suzanne gurgled under the onslaught. Then, losing her head, Marthe,
stiff-fingered, clawed her with her nails on the forehead, on the
cheeks, on the lips, those moist, red lips which Philippe had kissed.
Her hatred gained new life with every movement. Blood flowed and mingled
with Suzanne's tears. Marthe vilified her with abominable words, words
which she had never spoken before. And, drunk with rage, thrice she spat
in her face.

She ran out of the room, turned back, hissed a parting insult, slammed
the door and went down the passage, calling:

"Victor! Catherine!"

Once in her room, she pressed the bell-push until the servants came:

"My trunk! Bring it down! And get the carriage ready, Victor, do you
hear? At once!..."

Mme. Morestal appeared, attracted by the noise. Dr. Borel was with her.

"What's the matter, Marthe? What is it?"

"I refuse to stay here another hour!" retorted Marthe, heedless of the
presence of the doctor and the servants. "You can choose between Suzanne
and me...."

"My husband promised ..."

"Very well. As you choose that woman, I am going."

She opened the drawers of the chest and flung the dresses and linen out
promiscuously. With an abrupt movement, she pulled the cloth from the
table. All the knicknacks fell to the floor.

Dr. Borel tried to argue with her:

"This is all very well, but where are you going?"

"To Paris. My boys will come to me there."

"But haven't you seen the papers? The position is growing more serious
every hour. The frontier-corps are being mobilized. Are you sure of
getting through?"

"I am going," she said.

"And suppose you don't reach Paris?"

"I am going," she repeated.

"What about Philippe?"

She shrugged her shoulders. He understood that nothing mattered to her,
neither her husband's existence nor the threat of war, and that there
was no fighting against her despair. Nevertheless, as he went away with
Mme. Morestal, he said, loud enough for Marthe to hear:

"By the way, don't be uneasy about Philippe. He has been to see me and
to enquire after his father. He will come back. I promised to let him
know how things were going...."