Séverine paused. Then, after a quivering meditation, she exclaimed:
"Oh! I hate him! I hate him!"
Jacques was surprised. He had no ill-feeling against Roubaud.
"Indeed! Why is that?" he inquired "He does not interfere with us!"
Without replying, she repeated:
"I hate him! The mere idea of his being beside me is a torture. Ah! If I could, I would run away, I would remain with you!"
Jacques pressed her to him. Then, after another pause, she resumed:
"But you do not know, darling——"
The confession was on her lips again, fatally, inevitably. And this time he felt certain that nothing in the world would delay it. Not a sound could be heard in the house. The newsvendor even must have been in deep slumber. Outside, Paris covered with snow was wrapped in silence. Not a rumble of a vehicle could be heard in the streets. The last train for Havre, which had left at twenty minutes after midnight, seemed to have borne away the final vestige of life in the station. The stove had ceased roaring. The fire burning to ashes, gave fresh vigour to the red spot circling on the ceiling like a terrified eye. It was so warm that a heavy, stifling mist seemed to weigh down on them.
"Darling, you do not know——" she repeated.