France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
"It is not a question of that! I am dishonored! dishonored, do you
understand? It has been four months since I have given Juliette any
money ... four months! And here I live, I eat, have my amusements.
Every evening ... before dinner ... late at night.... Juliette
re-enters the house. She is worn-out, pale, her hair disheveled. From
what dens, what alcoves, what arms is she returning? Upon what pillows
has her head reclined! Sometimes I see pieces of bed clothes insolently
hanging on the top of her hair.... She no longer feels ashamed of
it, she does not even take the trouble to lie about it ... one might
think it had been arranged between us. She undresses, and I believe
she takes a perverse delight in showing me her ill-fastened skirts,
her unlaced corset, all the disorder of her rumpled clothes, of her
loosened garments which come off, falling to the ground about her, and
lie conspicuously on the floor, filling the bedroom with the breath of
other people!
"I tremble with rage and want to sink my teeth into her body; my wrath
is kindled to a frenzy and boils within me--I feel like killing her.
And I say nothing! Often I even come up to her to embrace her ... but
she pushes me away: 'No, leave me alone, I am tired!' At first, when
this abominable life started, I used to beat her ... for you must
know, Lirat, there isn't a disgraceful act that I have not committed.
I have exhausted every form of indecency--yes, I beat her! She bent
her back ... and hardly uttered a complaint. One evening I seized her
by the throat, I threw her to the ground. Oh! I had quite made up my
mind to finish her. While I was strangling her, I turned my head away
for fear that I might be moved to pity, fixed my gaze upon a flower
design on the carpet, and in order to hear nothing, neither her wailing
nor rattling, I shrieked out inarticulate words, like a possessed
one. How long did it last? Soon she ceased struggling ... her muscles
relaxed.... I felt her vitality giving out under my fingers ... a few
more convulsions ... and that was the end.... She did not stir any
more. And suddenly I saw her black-blue face, her contracted eyes, her
mouth, large and wide open, her rigid body, her motionless arms. And
like a madman I rushed into every room of the apartment, calling the
servants: 'Help, help, I have killed Madame! I have killed Madame!'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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