"The Villards have gone away," said Annette.
"No!" Marc cried.
She did not seem to hear him. Marc laid an impatient hand on his mother's arm, which was stretched out over the table, and besought her, "It isn't true?"
Annette roused herself from her torpor, rose and began to clear the table.
"But where, where?" cried Marc, overwhelmed.
"I don't know," said Annette. She gathered up the dishes and went out.
Marc stood there, haggard, before his ruined dream. He did not understand. This sudden departure, without a word of warning. . . . Impossible! . . . He started to follow his mother, to drag some explanation out of her. But, no! He stopped short. . . . No, this wasn't true! He understood now. . . . Annette had discovered his love. She wanted to separate them. She was lying, she was lying! Noémi had not gone away. . . . And he hated his mother.
He slipped out of the apartment, tumbled down the stairs, walked, ran, with a beating heart, to the Villards'. He was going to make sure that they had not left. And as a matter of fact, they were there. The footman said that Monsieur had just gone out; Madame was tired and was not receiving anyone. But Marc urged that she would let him have a moment's conversation with her. The servant returned. Madame was sorry, but it was impossible. The boy insisted, feverishly, that he must see her just for a moment; he had something very important to tell her. . . . Meanwhile, he said all sorts of incoherent things, stuttering and choking in a broken voice, making awkward gestures; he blushed, he was on the point of weeping. The curious, mocking eyes of the impassive footman made him lose the thread of his ideas. He was pushed towards the door. He resisted stupidly, crying out that he forbade anyone to touch him. The servant told him to get out, said that if he did not hold his tongue he would telephone to the concierge and have him taken down by force. . . . The door closed behind him. Ashamed and furious, he remained on the threshold, unable to make up his mind to leave. And as he leaned mechanically against the door, he saw it was not shut tight and was yielding. He pushed it open and stepped inside again. He meant at all costs to reach Noémi. The vestibule was empty. He knew where the room was and slipped into the corridor. He heard Noémi's voice from within. She was saying to the footman, "Never in the world! He bores me to death! You did quite right in pushing him out, the little fool!"
He found himself back on the landing. He fled, he wept, he ground his teeth, he was distracted. He sat down, choking, on one of the steps of the staircase. He did not want people to see him crying in the street.
Wiping away his tears, he assumed an air of calm that covered his mad grief and, without knowing where he was going, he set out for home again. He was desperate. To die, he wanted to die! Life was no longer posable. It was too ugly, too base, it lied, everything lied. He could not breathe. As he crossed the Seine he thought of flinging himself into it. But another unfortunate had been ahead of him. The banks looked as if they were blade with flies. Thousands of women and children were leaning over the parapet, eagerly watching as the drowned man was drawn out. What feelings stirred them? A very few felt a sadistic thrill. A few more felt pity. The immense majority felt the attraction of the unusual event, idle curiosity. A good number, perhaps, looked into their own hearts to see how a person suffers ("how I might suffer"), to see how a person dies ("how I might die"). Marc perceived only a base curiosity, and it horrified him. Kill himself, yes, but not in public! He was like Annette. He had a shy, fierce pride; he could never make a spectacle of himself before this rabble, never be mauled by their hands, violated in his nakedness by their dirty glances. He clenched his teeth and hurried home, hurried faster, resolved to kill himself.