out by her instinctive obedience, the passive obedience of a woman broken in by blows, who still remembers, after four years, and who will always remember, and always obey that voice. And she said:
“Here I am, Patin. What do you want?”
But Patin did not answer.
Then, bewildered, she looked round her, and she searched everywhere, in the cupboards, in the chimney, under the bed, without finding anyone, and at last let herself fall into a chair, distracted with misery, convinced that the spirit of Patin itself was there, near her, come back to torture her.
Suddenly, she remembered the loft, which could be reached from outside by a ladder. He had certainly hidden himself there to take her by surprise. He must have been kept by savages on some shore, unable to escape sooner, and he had come back, wickeder than ever. She could not doubt it, on the mere sound of his voice.
She asked, her head turned towards the ceiling:
“Are you up there, Patin?”
Patin did not answer.
Then she went out, and in an unutterable terror that set her heart beating madly, she climbed the ladder, opened the garret window, looked in, saw nothing, entered, searched, and found nothing.
Seated on a truss of hay, she began to cry; but while she was sobbing, shaken by an acute and supernatural terror, she heard, in the room below her, Patin telling his story. He seemed less angry, calmer, and he was saying:
“Filthy weather … high wind … filthy weather. I’ve had no breakfast, damn it.”
She called through the ceiling:
“I’m here, Patin; I’ll make you some soup. Don’t be angry. I’m coming.”
She climbed down at a run.
There was no one in her house.
She felt her body giving way as if Death had his hand on her, and she was going to run out to ask help from the neighbours, when just in her ear the voice cried:
“I’ve had no breakfast, damn it.”
The parrot, in his cage, was regarding her with his round, malicious, wicked eye.
She stared back at him, in amazement, murmuring:
“Oh, it’s you.”
He answered, shaking his head:
“Wait, wait, wait, I’ll teach you to faint.”
What were her thoughts? She felt, she realised that this was none other than the dead man, who had returned and hidden himself in the feathers of this creature, to begin tormenting her again, that he was going to swear, as he did before, all day, and find fault with her, and shout insults to attract their neighbours’ attention and make them laugh. Then she flung herself across the room, opened the cage, seized the bird, who defended himself and tore her skin with his beak and his claws. But she held him with all her might, in both hands, and throwing herself on the ground, rolled on top of him with the frenzy of a madman, crushed him to death and made a mere rag of flesh of him, a little soft green thing that no longer moved or spoke, and hung limp. Then, wrapping him in a dishcloth as a shroud, she went out, in her shift, and barefooted, crossed the quay, against which the sea was breaking in small waves, and shaking the cloth, let fall this small green thing that looked like a handful of grass. Then she returned, threw herself on her knees before the empty cage, and utterly overcome by what she had done, she asked pardon of the good God, sobbing, as if she had just committed a horrible crime.
The Cripple
This adventure happened to me about 1882.
I had just settled myself in the corner of an empty carriage, and I had shut the door, in the hope of being left undisturbed, when it was abruptly reopened and I heard a voice say:
“Take care, sir, we are just at the crossing of the lines: the footboard is very high.”
Another voice answered:
“Don’t worry, Laurent, I’ll hold fast.”
Then a head appeared, covered with a round cap, and two hands, clinging to the leather straps that hung from both sides of the carriage door, slowly hoisted up a fat body whose feet on the footboard produced the sound of a stick striking the ground.
But when the man had got the upper part of his body into the compartment, I saw the black-painted end of a wooden leg appearing in the limp-hanging leg of his trousers, followed shortly by a similar stump.
A head came into view behind this traveller, and asked:
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, my boy.”
“Then here are your parcels and your crutches.”
And a manservant, who had the appearance of an old soldier, climbed up too, carrying in his arms a quantity of things wrapped in black and yellow papers, carefully tied with strings, and placed them one after another on the rack above his master’s head. Then he said:
“There you are, sir, that’s the lot. There are five of them: the sweets, the doll, the drum, the gun, and the pâté de foie gras.
“That’s right, my boy.”
“I hope you’ll have a comfortable journey, sir.”
“Thanks, Laurent; keep yourself fit.”
The man went away, reclosing the door, and I looked at my neighbour.
He must have been about thirty-five years old, although his hair was almost white; he wore various decorations, he was moustached, and very stout, a victim to the short-winded obesity that falls on strong active men whom some infirmity deprives of exercise.
He mopped his forehead, panted, and giving me a direct glance, said:
“Does the smoke annoy you, sir?”
“No, sir.”
That eye, that voice, that face, I knew them well. But where, where did I get my knowledge? I had certainly met the fellow, I had talked to him, I had shaken his hand. It went a long way back, a very long way, it was lost in those mists where the mind seems to grope after memories and pursue them, like flying phantoms, without grasping them.
He too was now scrutinising my face in the fixed and tenacious manner of a man who has some dim remembrance but cannot quite place it.
Our eyes, embarrassed by this unwinking
