And he laughed with delight, and promising to keep Octave’s secret, sent him off, wishing him a pleasant night of it.
When Octave found himself back in Rachel’s room, he experienced a fresh deception. Berthe was not there. Anger got the better of him now: Berthe had humbugged him, she had promised him merely to get rid of his importunities. Whilst he was chafing there, she was sleeping, happy at being alone, occupying the whole breadth of the conjugal couch. Then, instead of returning to his room and going to sleep himself, he obstinately waited, throwing himself all dressed as he was on the bed, and passing the night in forming projects of revenge. Three o’clock chimed out in the distance. The snores of robust maid-servants arose on his left; while on his right there was a continual wail, a woman moaning with pain in the fever of a sleepless night. He ended by recognizing the boot-stitcher’s voice. The wretched woman was lying suffering all alone in one of those poverty-stricken closets next to the roof.
Just as day was breaking, Octave fell asleep. A profound silence reigned; even the boot-stitcher no longer moaned, but lay like one dead. The sun was peering through the narrow window, when the door opening abruptly awoke the young man.
It was Berthe, who, urged by an irresistible desire, had come up to see if he was still there; she had at first scouted the idea, then she had furnished herself with pretexts, the need for going to the room and putting everything straight, in case he had left it anyhow in his rage. Moreover, she no longer expected to find him there. When she beheld him rise from the little iron bedstead, ghastly pale and menacing, she stood dumbfounded; and she listened with bowed head to his furious reproaches. He pressed her to answer, to give him at least some explanation. At length she murmured:
“At the last moment I could not do it. It was too indelicate. I love you, oh! I swear it. But not here, not here!”
And, seeing him approach her, she drew back, afraid that he might wish to take advantage of the opportunity. Eight o’clock was striking, the servants had all gone down, even Trublot had departed. Then, as he tried to take hold of her hands, saying that, when one loves a person, one accepts everything, she complained that the closeness of the room made her feel unwell, and she slightly opened the window. But he again tried to draw her toward him, overpowering her with his importunities. At this moment a turbid torrent of foul words ascended from the inner courtyard.
“Pig! slut! have you done? Your dish-cloth’s again fallen on my head.”
Berthe, turning ghastly pale, and quivering from head to foot, released herself, murmuring:
“Do you hear those girls? They make me shiver all over. The other day, I thought I should have been ill. No, leave me alone, and I promise to see you, on Tuesday next, in your room.”
The two lovers, standing up and not daring to move, were compelled to hear everything.