And, with her knees giving way beneath her, she said, over and over again:
"I beg your pardon.... Forgive me ... forgive me.... It was my fault.... Philippe would never have ..."
Marthe at first listened without stirring. Perhaps she might have been just able to restrain herself. But, at the name of Philippe, at the name of Philippe uttered by Suzanne, she gave a bound, clutched the girl by the throat and flung her back against the table. She quivered with rage like an animal that at last holds its foe. She would have liked to destroy that body which her husband had clasped in his arms, to tear it, bite it, hurt it, hurt it as much as she could.
Suzanne gurgled under the onslaught. Then, losing her head, Marthe, stiff-fingered, clawed her with her nails on the forehead, on the cheeks, on the lips, those moist, red lips which Philippe had kissed. Her hatred gained new life with every movement. Blood flowed and mingled with Suzanne's tears. Marthe vilified her with abominable words, words which she had never spoken before. And, drunk with rage, thrice she spat in her face.
She ran out of the room, turned back, hissed a parting insult, slammed the door and went down the passage, calling:
"Victor! Catherine!"
Once in her room, she pressed the bell-push until the servants came:
"My trunk! Bring it down! And get the carriage ready, Victor, do you hear? At once!..."
Mme. Morestal appeared, attracted by the noise. Dr. Borel was with her.
"What's the matter, Marthe? What is it?"