When Roubaud turned round, it was with a face cloudy and obstinate, as if overcast by the shadow of this night that was drawing in. He had made up his mind. His plan was formed. In the vanishing darkness, he looked at the cuckoo clock, and exclaimed aloud: "Twenty minutes past five!" He was astounded; one hour, barely one hour, and so much to do! It seemed to him that they had been devouring one another there for weeks. "Twenty minutes past five!" he muttered. "We shall have enough time." Séverine, without daring to ask a question, continued following him with her anxious eyes. She saw him rummage in the cupboard, and bring out some notepaper, a small bottle of ink, and a pen. "What!" she exclaimed. "Are you going to write a letter? To whom?" "To him. Sit down." And, as she instinctively drew away from the chair, ignoring as yet what he was about to exact from her, he brought her back, and weighed her down so heavily as he seated her at the table, that she remained there. "Write this: 'Leave to-night by the 6.30 express, and do not show yourself before you arrive at Rouen.'" She held the pen, but her hand trembled. Her fright increased at the thought of all the unknown gaping before her in those two simple lines. And she had the courage to raise her head, and say in a pleading tone: "What are you going to do, my dear? I beg you to tell me." He only repeated, in his loud, inexorable voice: "Write, write!" Then, with his eyes on her eyes, without anger, without ugly words, but with such obstinacy that she felt the weight crushing and annihilating her, he answered: "What I am going to do, you will see, well enough. And listen, what I am going to do, I mean you to do with me. In that way we shall remain together. There will be something binding between us." He terrified her. She drew back again. "No, no; I want to know!" she exclaimed. "I will not write without knowing." Then, ceasing to speak, he took her hand--the small, delicate hand of a child, and pressed it in his iron fist, with the continuous pressure of a vice, until he almost crushed it. He was driving his will into her flesh with the pain. She uttered a cry. All her spirit was broken, all her will surrendered. Ignorant creature as she had remained, in her passive gentleness, she could but obey. Instrument of love, instrument of death. "Write, write!" he repeated again. And she wrote painfully, with her poor, sore hand. "That's all right; you are very good," said he, when he had the letter. "Now tidy the place up a bit, and get everything ready. I'll come back and fetch you."