'Open the door, sir! We shall go for the police if you don't. Oh, the scoundrel! he will end his days on the scaffold!'
Then the groans and cries began again. Trouche declared that the blackguard must be bleeding the poor lady like a fowl.
'We must do something more than knock at the door,' said Abbé Faujas, coming forward. 'Wait a moment.'
He put one of his broad shoulders to the door and with a slow persistent effort forced it open. The women then rushed into the room, where the most extraordinary spectacle met their eyes.
Marthe, her night-dress torn, lay panting on the floor, bruised, scratched, and bleeding. Her dishevelled hair was twined round the leg of a chair, and her hands had so firmly gripped hold of the chest of drawers, that it was pulled from its place and now stood in front of the door. Mouret was standing in a corner, holding the candle and gazing at his wife with an expression of stupefaction.
Abbé Faujas had to push the chest of drawers on one side.
'You are a monster!' cried Rose, rushing up to Mouret and shaking her fist at him. 'To treat a woman like that! He would have killed her, if we hadn't come in time to prevent him.'
Madame Faujas and Olympe bent down over Marthe. 'Poor dear!' said the former. 'She had a presentiment of something this evening. She was quite frightened.'
'Where are you hurt?' asked Olympe. 'There is nothing broken, is there? Look at her shoulder, it's quite black; and her knee is dreadfully grazed. Make yourself easy; we are with you, and we will protect you.'