"Oh! no, your goings on are too funny, too stupid! Oh! la la! Oh! la la! How stupid it is!" Of course I quit the house that night, and found myself once more on the street pavement. What a dog of a trade! What a dog of a life! The blow was a hard one, and I said to myself, but too late, that never should I find another place like that. There I had everything,--good wages, profits of all sorts, easy work, liberty, pleasures. I had only to let myself live. Another, less crazy than I, would have been able to put much money aside, and gradually accumulate a complete and beautiful wardrobe. Five or six years only, and who knows? One could marry, buy a little business, have a home of one's own, secure against want and ill-luck,--almost a lady. But now the series of miseries must begin over again, and I submit anew to the offences of chance. I was much put out by this accident, and furious; furious against myself, against William, against Eugénie, against Madame, against everybody. Curious and inexplicable thing,--instead of clinging and holding fast to my place, which would have been easy with a type like Madame, I had buried myself deeper in my stupidity, and, cheeking it through, I had rendered irreparable that which could have been repaired. What strange things take place in one at certain moments! It passes understanding. It is like a fit of madness which falls upon you, you know not whence, you know not why,--which seizes you, shakes you, excites you, and forces you to cry out and shower insults. Under the influence of this fit of madness, I had heaped outrages upon Madame. I had reproached her with her father, with her mother, and with the imbecile falsehood of her life; I had treated her as one does not treat a prostitute; I had spat upon her husband. And this frightens me, when I think of it. I feel ashamed of these sudden descents into baseness, of these filthy intoxications, in which my reason so often staggers, and which impel me to violence and murder. Why did I not kill her that day? Why did I not strangle her? I do not know. God knows, however, that I am not wicked. To-day I see again this poor woman, in my mind's eye; I see again her sad and disorderly life, with her coward, her dismal coward, of a husband. And I feel an immense pity for her; and I would like her to have strength enough to leave him and be happy. After the terrible scene I hurried down to the servants' hall. William was mildly polishing the silverware, and smoking a Russian cigarette. "What is the matter with you?" asked he, in the most tranquil fashion in the world. "I must go away; I must quit the box to-night," I gasped. I could scarcely speak. "What! you are going?" exclaimed William, without the least emotion. "And why?" In short and hissing phrases, and mimicking their manners, I related the entire scene between Madame and Monsieur. William, very calm and indifferent, shrugged his shoulders.