From the street, the intermittent noise of vehicles reached me; the buses rolled heavily, the closed carriages passed by lightly and rapidly. When one of them passed close to the sidewalk or slowed down I would rush to the window, which I had left half-open, to look into the street.... No one alighted. "She won't come!" And while saying to myself: "She won't come," I hoped that Juliette would be in shortly. Oh, how many times I had rolled on the sofa, crying: "She won't come!" And Juliette always came. Always at the moment when I most despaired, I heard a carriage stop, then steps on the stairway, a creaking noise in the hallway, and Juliette would appear smiling, adorned with plumes, filling the room with a strong odor of perfume and the rustling of silk in motion. "Come on, get your hat, my dear." Irritated by her smile, by her dress, by the perfume, exasperated by the long waiting, I used to upbraid her severely: "Where have you been? In what joints have you been? Yes, tell me, in what joints?" "Ah! You are trying to make a scene. Well, thanks! I am leaving. Good night! And here I have taken all the pains in the world to snatch a moment to look you up!" Then pointing my finger to the door, my muscles contracted, I would burst out: "Well, go ahead! Go to the devil! And never come back again, never!" With the door scarcely shut behind Juliette, I would run after her. "Juliette! Come back, please! Juliette! Wait.... I am going with you." She would still be descending the stairs, without turning her head. I would catch up with her. Near her, near this dress, these plumes, these flowers, these jewels, fury would again seize me: "Come right up with me or I'll crack your head against these steps!" And when in the room I would throw myself at her feet. "Ah, my little Juliette, I am wrong, I know I am wrong. But I suffer so much! Have pity on me! If you only knew in what a hell I am living! If you could only tear my breast open and see what is going on in my heart! Juliette! Oh, I can't, I can't go on living like this any more! Even a beast would have pity on me. Yes, a wretched beast would have pity on me!" I would press her arms, cling to her dress.