When the candle was lit, Marie saw that Yves had again torn his new clothes, which once already she had mended with so much care; and his big blue collar was crumpled and stained and his jersey unravelled, the broken stitches gaping on his chest.
He walked up and down, turning about like a caged beast, making confusion, upsetting brusquely things which she had arranged, pieces of bread which she had saved up.
And she, having put their child in his cradle and covered him up, pretended to occupy herself with domestic duties. At times such as these it was necessary to appear as if nothing had happened; otherwise, if one seemed to be taking too much thought of him, he would become suddenly exasperated, like a wild beast which has scented blood; and he would want to go out again. And when once he had said: "I am going out! I am going out to join my friends!" out he would go with the obstinacy of a brute; not force, nor prayers, nor tears were able to restrain him.
[CHAPTER LIII]
Sometimes Yves would fall suddenly like a log and sleep for several hours; and then it would be over. This depended on the particular kind of liquor he had taken.
At other times he held out, somehow or other, and returned to his ship in the harbour.
On this particular morning, at seven o'clock, Yves, a little sobered, had the idea unprompted of bathing his head in cold water. Then he went out and took the road to the dockyard.
[CHAPTER LIV]
Then Marie sat down, broken, utterly powerless, beside the cradle in which their little son was sleeping.
Through the curtainless windows a whitish light began to enter, a pale, pale light which made one feel cold.