She said nothing.
“However,” he went on, “this is going to come to an end, this is!”
He rose, changed the position of the candle, putting it on a chest of drawers, and then drew his trunk from the wall, and knelt in front of it.
She gathered that he was packing his clothes. At first she did not comprehend his reference to beginning the New Year. Then his meaning revealed itself. That story to her mother about having been attacked by ruffians at the bottom of King Street had been an invention, a ruse to account plausibly for his presence on her mother’s doorstep! And she had never suspected that the story was not true. In spite of her experience of his lying, she had never suspected that that particular statement was a lie. What a simpleton she was!
There was a continual movement in the room for about a quarter of an hour. Then a key turned in the lock of the trunk.
His head popped up over the foot of the bed. “This isn’t a joke, you know,” he said.
She kept silence.
“I give you one more chance. Will you write to your mother—or Constance if you like—or won’t you?”
She scorned to reply in any way.
“I’m your husband,” he said. “And it’s your duty to obey me, particularly in an affair like this. I order you to write to your mother.”
The corners of her lips turned downwards.
Angered by her mute obstinacy, he broke away from the bed with a sudden gesture.
“You do as you like,” he cried, putting on his overcoat, “and I shall do as I like. You can’t say I haven’t warned you. It’s your own deliberate choice, mind you! Whatever happens to you you’ve brought on yourself.” He lifted and shrugged his shoulders to get the overcoat exactly into place on his shoulders.
She would not speak a word, not even to insist that she was indisposed.
He pushed his trunk outside the door, and returned to the bed.
“You understand,” he said menacingly; “I’m off.”
She looked up at the foul ceiling.
“Hm!” he sniffed, bringing his reserves of pride to combat the persistent silence that was damaging his dignity. And he went off, sticking his head forward like a pugilist.
“Here!” she muttered. “You’re forgetting this.”
He turned.
She stretched her hand to the night-table and held up a red circlet.
“What is it?”
“It’s the bit of paper off the cigar you bought in the Rue Montmartre this afternoon,” she answered, in a significant tone.
He hesitated, then swore violently, and bounced out of the room. He had made her suffer, but she was almost repaid for everything by that moment of cruel triumph. She exulted in it, and never forgot it.
Five minutes later, the gloomy menial in felt slippers and alpaca jacket, who seemed to pass the whole of his life flitting in and out of bedrooms like a rabbit in a warren, carried Gerald’s trunk downstairs. She recognized the peculiar tread of his slippers.
Then there was a knock at the door. The landlady entered, actuated by a legitimate curiosity.
“Madame is suffering?” the landlady began.
Sophia refused offers of food and nursing.
“Madame knows without doubt that monsieur has gone away?”
“Has he paid the bill?” Sophia asked bluntly.
“But yes, madame, till tomorrow. Then madame has want of nothing?”
“If you will extinguish the candle,” said Sophia.
He had deserted her, then!
“All this,” she reflected, listening in the dark to the ceaseless rattle of the street, “because mother and Constance wanted to see the elephant, and I had to go into father’s room! I should never have caught sight of him from the drawing room window!”
IV
She passed a night of physical misery, exasperated by the tireless rattling vitality of the street. She kept saying to herself: “I’m all alone now, and I’m going to be ill. I am ill.” She saw herself dying in Paris, and heard the expressions of facile sympathy and idle curiosity drawn forth by the sight of the dead body of this foreign woman in a little Paris hotel. She reached the stage, in the gradual excruciation of her nerves, when she was obliged to concentrate her agonized mind on an intense and painful expectancy of the next new noise, which when it came increased her torture and decreased her strength to support it. She went through all the interminable dilatoriness of the dawn, from the moment when she could scarcely discern the window to the moment when she could read the word “Bock” on the red circlet of paper which had tossed all night on the sea of the counterpane. She knew she would never sleep again. She could not imagine herself asleep; and then she was startled by a sound that seemed to clash with the rest of her impressions. It was a knocking at the door. With a start she perceived that she must have been asleep.
“Enter,” she murmured.
There entered the menial in alpaca. His waxen face showed a morose commiseration. He noiselessly approached the bed—he seemed to have none of the characteristics of a man, but to be a creature infinitely mysterious and aloof from humanity—and held out to Sophia a visiting card in his grey hand.
It was Chirac’s card.
“Monsieur asked for monsieur,” said the waiter. “And then, as monsieur had gone away he demanded to see madame. He says it is very important.”
Her heart jumped, partly in vague alarm, and partly with a sense of relief at this chance of speaking to someone whom she knew. She tried to reflect rationally.
“What time is it?” she inquired.
“Eleven o’clock, madame.”
This was surprising. The fact that it was eleven o’clock destroyed the remains of her self-confidence. How could it be eleven o’clock,
