Séverine, without daring to ask a question, continued following him with her anxious eyes. She saw him rummage in the cupboard, and bring out some notepaper, a small bottle of ink, and a pen.
"What!" she exclaimed. "Are you going to write a letter? To whom?"
"To him. Sit down."
And, as she instinctively drew away from the chair, ignoring as yet what he was about to exact from her, he brought her back, and weighed her down so heavily as he seated her at the table, that she remained there.
"Write this: 'Leave to-night by the 6.30 express, and do not show yourself before you arrive at Rouen.'"
She held the pen, but her hand trembled. Her fright increased at the thought of all the unknown gaping before her in those two simple lines. And she had the courage to raise her head, and say in a pleading tone:
"What are you going to do, my dear? I beg you to tell me."
He only repeated, in his loud, inexorable voice:
"Write, write!"
Then, with his eyes on her eyes, without anger, without ugly words, but with such obstinacy that she felt the weight crushing and annihilating her, he answered: