And her figure, which had been long compressed, now swelled out, revealing the characteristic roundness, the stain of motherhood, the crime. They continued on their way. A few steps further on they entered an inn by the roadside, and ordered a quart of wine. "Why didn't you say I was pregnant?" asked the woman. The man answered: "What? That she might show us the door, as the three others have done?" "To-day or to-morrow makes but little difference." Then the man murmured between his teeth: "If you were a woman,--well, you would go this very evening to Mother Hurlot. She has herbs." But the woman began to weep. And in her tears she groaned: "Don't say that; don't say that! That brings bad luck." The man pounded the table, and cried: "Must we, then, die, my God!" The bad luck came. Four days later the woman had a miscarriage ... a miscarriage?... and died in the frightful pains of peritonitis. And, when the man had finished his story, he said to me: "So now here I am, all alone. No wife, no child, nothing. I really thought of revenging myself; yes, for a long time I thought of killing those three children that were playing on the lawn, although I am not wicked, I assure you. But that woman's three children, I swear to you, I could have strangled with joy, with real joy! Oh! yes. But then, I did not dare. What do you expect? We are afraid; we are cowards; we have courage only to suffer!" XVI _November 24._ No letter from Joseph. Knowing how prudent he is, I am not greatly astonished at his silence, but it causes me a little suffering. To be sure, Joseph is not unaware that the letters go through Madame's hands before reaching ours, and doubtless he does not wish to expose himself or me to the danger of their being read by her, or even have the fact that he writes to me made a subject of Madame's malicious comments. Yet, with his great mental resources, it seems to me that he could have found a way of sending me news. He is to return to-morrow morning. Will he return? I am not without anxiety, and cannot keep from thinking about it. Why, too, was he unwilling to give me his Cherbourg address? But I do not wish to think of all these things, that split my head and put me into a fever.