Marie close by is bending over the sink rubbing it with a brush round and round always on the same spot. The water slaps on the tile floor and squirts over my dress. Her movements have something eternal about them and the appearance of never-ending complaint.
There is nothing to say. Whatever I do, she remains dumb, and the more I try to reach her, the more she avoids me.
But what does Marie matter? I force myself to get back to my own affairs. And quickly. He will come in, there will be his gaiety, the joy flashing in our voices, the day's doings to tell of, and our dear union only a fortnight old....
Marie is there; nothing can efface her. My irritation against her boils up, then turns against myself. It is not pity I feel but rather an intolerable impotence. I hurl myself with all my force against the eclipsed expression of the Breton girl, and each time it hurts.
Marie....
And I used to think that to love was to feel yourselves alone. On the contrary, it is to feel yourself to be many.
No, no, love is not the emotion of two people. No, as soon as one feels love one wants to love everyone, win over everyone, shine on everyone, even on this ignorant head. What sin have I committed that a single welcome should be denied me? She does not smile; that's my fault. What is lacking in my love that I should face the vexation of a culpable failure? My pity for Marie and my love for him are one, because I have only one heart. And since my heart is repulsed, is it impure?
Marie has resumed her feeble, beaten-down existence. She has set aside the brush, her blue eyes look beyond the walls, she wipes her wet hands on her apron—her hostile hands, which are peculiarly hers.
What can one do? But there must be something she believes in, there must be something one can do to move her, there must be some word to say to uncover the tomb of her heart.