gnaws at my heart, a thousand claws sink into it, tears it to pieces in a frenzy of grief. . . . A desire to kill is kindled in me and makes my arms go through murderous motions. . . . Ah, to rush, whip in hand, into the midst of this lustful crowd and lash their bodies until ineffaceable marks are left on them, cause their warm blood to spurt, and scatter pieces of their living flesh all over the mirrors, carpets, beds! . . . And nail that Rabineau woman to the door of this house of ill-fame, like an owl on the doors of farm barns, nail her stripped, disemboweled, with her vitals out! . . . A hackney coach has stopped: a woman steps out. I recognize the hat, the veil, the dress.
"Juliette!"
On seeing me, she utters a cry. . . . But she regains her composure quickly. . . . Her eyes defy me.
"Leave me alone," she cries out to me. "What are you doing here? . . . Leave me alone!"
I almost crush her wrists, and in a suffocating voice which rattles:
"Listen now. . . . If you make another step. . . . if you say another word. . . I'll knock you dead right here on this sidewalk, and tramp you to death under my feet."
With a heavy blow I strike her in the face and with my nails I furiously claw her forehead and cheeks from which blood is gushing.
"Jean! Oh! Jean! . . . Have mercy, please! . . . Jean, mercy; Mercy! . . . Have pity on me! . . . You are killing me. . . ."
Rudely I drag her toward the carriage. . . and we get in. . . . Huddled up in two, she sits there right close to me, sobbing. . . . What am I going to do now? . . . I don't know. . . . In truth I don't know. I don't ask myself any questions. I don't think of anything. . . . It seems as though a mountain of stone
