Théophraste resorted once more to oaths and insults, and called Marceline in such a tone that she ran to him in spite of herself. The spectacle which awaited her in the kitchen was atrocious. Signor Petito was lying on the wooden table, his eyes bursting from their orbits, a handkerchief in his mouth, which nearly suffocated him. Théophraste had had the time, and was possessed with the extraordinary strength to tie his hands and ankles with cords. Signor Petito’s head hung a little beyond the edge of the table, and under it there was a bowl which M. Longuet had placed there to prevent soiling anything. The latter with palpitating nostrils had caught Signor Petito by the hair with his left hand. In his right he clasped the handle of a notched kitchen knife. Gnashing his teeth, he cried out, “Strike the flags.” As he said this he made the first cut at the right ear. The cartilage resisted. Signor Petito’s muffled groans could just be heard. M. Longuet, who was still in his night-shirt, worked like a surgeon bent upon a difficult operation. Marceline’s strength failed her, and she fell upon her knees. Signor Petito, in attempting to struggle, threw the blood from his ears across the kitchen, and Théophraste, letting go his hair, struck him a blow across the head. “Be a little careful,” said he, “you are splashing the blood all over everything.” The cartilage still resisted, so taking the right ear in his left hand, with a strong blow with the notched knife he tore it away. He placed the ear in a saucer which he had previously placed on the sink, and allowed the water to flow over it. Then he came back to the second ear. Marceline groaned very loudly, but he silenced her with a glance. The second ear was cut off much more easily, and with more dispatch. By this time Signor Petito had swallowed half of the handkerchief, and was suffocating. Théophraste took the handkerchief out of his mouth and threw it out into the clothes-basket near by. He then untied his ankles and wrists, and signed to him to leave the apartment as soon as possible. He had the forethought to wrap his head in a dish-cloth, so that the blood would not stain the stairway or the janitor’s family. As Signor Petito passed by, in agony, Théophraste put the washed ears into his vest pocket. “You forgot something,” he said. “What would Signora Petito say if you went back without your ears?” He closed the door. Looking at Marceline, who was on her knees, paralysed with horror, he wiped the bloody knife on his sleeve. CHAPTER XV _Adolphe Consulted_ |THEOPHRASTE, the next day, seemed to have forgotten all the incidents of the night before, or at least to attach very little importance to them.