Then, addressing herself to Madame Faujas, she added:
'He threw his stick out of the window, no doubt, when he heard us coming.'
Mouret at last put the candle back upon the chest of drawers and seated himself on a chair, with his hands upon his knees. He made no further attempt to defend himself, but gazed with stupefaction at the women who were shaking their skinny arms in front of the bed. Trouche had exchanged a glance with Abbé Faujas. That poor fellow, Mouret, certainly had no very ferocious appearance as he sat there in his night-gown, with a yellow handkerchief tied round his bald head. However, the others all closed round the bed and looked at Marthe, who, with distorted face, seemed to be waking from a dream.
'What is the matter, Rose?' she asked. 'What are all these people doing here? I am quite exhausted. Ask them to leave me in peace.'
Rose hesitated for a moment.
'Your husband is in the room, madame,' she said at last. 'Aren't you afraid to remain alone with him?'
Marthe looked at her in astonishment.
'No, no; not at all,' she replied. 'Go away; I am very sleepy.'
Thereupon the five people quitted the room, leaving Mouret seated on the chair, staring blankly towards the bed.
'He won't be able to fasten the door again,' the cook exclaimed as she went back upstairs. 'At the very first sound I shall fly down and be at him. I shall go to bed with my things on. Did you hear what stories the dear lady told to prevent him from appearing such a brute? She would let herself be murdered rather than accuse him. What a hypocritical face he has, hasn't he?'