Yves appeared at last, walking straight, carrying himself well, his head
high, but his eye lustreless, bewildered. He saw his wife, but pretended
that he did not, throwing on her as he passed an angry, troubled glance.
_It was not he_--as he used to say himself afterwards, in the good
moments of repentance which still came to him.
In fact, it was not he: it was the savage beast within him which
drunkenness awakened, when his real self was obscured and submerged.
Marie refrained from saying a word, not only from uttering a reproach,
but even from an entreaty. It was better not to speak to Yves in these
moments when his head was gone: he would go away again. She knew that;
she was forced into this silence.
She followed, with downbent head, in the rain, dragging by the hand her
little Pierre who was trying to cry even more quietly now since he had
seen his father, and whose poor little feet were getting wet in the mud
of the gutter.
How could she let him walk thus? How could she even have brought him out
like this, before daybreak? What was she thinking of? Had she gone mad?
. . . And she picked him up and hugged him to her breast, warming him
against her body, kissing him in passionate affection.
Yves pretended to pass his door, by way of aggravation--a piteous piece
of brutish foolery--and then looked back at his wife with a stupid smile
which was not good to see, as one who should say: "That was a little
joke of mine, but you see I am going in."
She followed at a distance, hugging the wall of the dark staircase so as
not to be seen, making herself small, lowly. Happily it was not yet
daylight, and the neighbours no doubt would still be abed, and so would
not be witnesses of this disgrace.
She followed him into their room and shut the door.
There was no fire and the room had an air of poverty which smote the
heart.
When the candle was lit, Marie saw that Yves had again torn his new
clothes, which once already she had mended with so much care; and his
big blue collar was crumpled and stained and his jersey unravelled, the
broken stitches gaping on his chest.
He walked up and down, turning about like a caged beast, making
confusion, upsetting brusquely things which she had arranged, pieces of
bread which she had saved up.
And she, having put their child in his cradle and covered him up,
pretended to occupy herself with domestic duties. At times such as these
it was necessary to appear as if nothing had happened; otherwise, if one
seemed to be taking too much thought of him, he would become suddenly
exasperated, like a wild beast which has scented blood; and he would
want to go out again. And when once he had said: "I am going out! I am
going out to join my friends!" out he would go with the obstinacy of a
brute; not force, nor prayers, nor tears were able to restrain him.