Before Suzanne yanked out the lamp plug, she encouraged him to see her nakedness: she placed the food tray on the wash stand; she combed her hair before the bureau mirror: she shook her hair over her shoulders. Her breasts were plump and rosy. She had rose nipples. Her belly was a working woman’s belly: she was strong. Standing with her legs tantalizingly apart, fluffing her hair, she dabbed cologne on her shoulders. Not a word. Darkness, and then a small light, a lamppost outside the inn, revealed the wash stand and the brass bedposts--making them unreal. The bed squeaked as Suzanne climbed in, hands and arms ready for him, mouth ready for him, her fatigue momentarily aside. She had difficulty arousing him; she wanted him right away; she was too tired for play; she scolded him and punched him with both knees; she muttered angrily. "Come on, come on ... wake up ... I want that money ... you think I’m a slut ... I need money. You..." She kicked him. Disgusted with her, disappointed with himself, angry, he straightened her on the bed, slapped her across the face. Lying on top of her, weighing her down, he fucked her, she was tight, tough, skilled, peasant. Her mouth was slippery--big. He slapped it hard. Then again. As his hate diminished, as he lay there, tired, fighting his sex guilt, he wished he could infect her. If she did not have syphilis he wanted to give it to her. It would leave her something to remember the war by. Then, he realized she could be cured easily, through penicillin. So, it did not matter. If she infected him ... that did not matter. Nothing mattered. All this was worse than masturbation in a stalled tank. His mind returned to the machines: the tanks were crawling through a dense mist, one bus behind the other, guided by a GI flashlight, a green dot, a blinking dot ... In the morning, roosters woke him and he slipped out of bed before Suzanne woke; as soon as he was dressed he pulled out his billfold and left her 220 francs, on the food tray, between cheese and bread ... Suzanne ... farm girl ... She would be pleased to find him gone--everything easy. Standing by the door, he ate a piece of bread: what if she became pregnant, was the thought and the bread tasted sour: and that girl in the hospital, what about her, what about her possible pregnancy? Stealthily, he unlatched and squeezed through the doorway, no one awake: walking through the hall and descending the stairs was like passing through a packing box. As he neared Ermenonville, the sun yellowed the ground. In the Ronde kitchen, Annette was busy, her coffee smelling up the room. "Good morning ... You’re up early," she said cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?" "Good morning ... mind if I have a cup of coffee?" "I’ll be glad to ... coffee and croissant ... in the dining room?" "In the living room, Annette."