Yet through it all, in spite of the rakish airs he gave himself, like the big, undisciplined child he was, poor Jean had kept himself almost chaste. He would not stoop to a dishonouring intimacy with negresses, and when Dame Virginie’s pupils let their hands stray over him, he pushed them away with the end of his riding whip, like unclean animals, and the miserable little creatures came to look upon him as a sort of human fetish whom they might not approach. But he was violent when he was drunk; when he lost his head and his enormous physical strength was no longer under control, he was terrifying. He had struck that blow just now, roused by some casual jest on the subject of his love affairs, and he no longer remembered anything about it. He remained there motionless, with lack-lustre eyes, still holding in his hand the blood-stained latch. Suddenly his eyes flashed. Now it was that old woman who was provoking his unreasoning wrath, the senseless rage of a drunken man. He half rose to his feet, threatening her in his fury. The old hag uttered a hoarse cry; she went through a minute of horrible fear. “Hold him,” she moaned to the inert beings who were already lying asleep under the tables. Some heads were raised; feeble, impotent hands tried to hold Jean back by his jacket, but their efforts were futile. “Give me some drink, you old witch,” he said; “some drink, you old devil of night; you horrible old hag, some drink.” “Yes, yes,” she answered, her voice choking with fear. “That’s it! Some drink, Sam, some absinthe, quick, to finish him off; absinthe laced with brandy.” In these emergencies, Dame Virginie did not consider expense. Jean drank it off at one draught, flung his glass against the wall, and fell back as if struck by lightning. He was successfully “finished off,” as the old harridan had said. He was no longer dangerous. She was strong, was old Scholastique, sturdily built—and wholly sober now. With the help of her black wench and her little girls, she lifted Jean like a dead weight, and after rapidly searching his pockets for the last coins they might contain, she opened the door and threw him out. Jean fell like a corpse, his arms extended, his face in the sand—and the old hag, after discharging a flood of appalling abuse and savage obscenities, drew to her door, which closed heavily with a loud clang of iron. All was still. The wind blew from the cemetery, and in the intense silence of midnight could be clearly heard the shrill howling of the jackals, the uncanny music of the body-snatchers. XXII Françoise Peyral to her son.