In two strides he was on the lawn; the soft earth deadened the sound of his feet. He gave a sardonic chuckle, a kind of victorious cough. At least, moving this way, on this soft ground, he would not be heard coming.... Oh!... Where was he going in his infatuated march? What could he do, or say, what could he imagine, in case he were to meet them at the turning of a path? He had scarcely thought of that; a savage sorrow was burning him, ceaselessly, and urged him forward like an animal maddened by fire. He felt nothing, neither the perfume of the lime-trees, nor the freshness of the grass which wet his ankles, nor the hateful aspect of his own pursuit, the shamefulness of his cunning! He was approaching ... he reached the park, he was going to see! He ventured into the thickest part of the wood. The carpet of dead leaves exhaled slowly towards him its pungent odor of eternal and ever renewed decay. Supple branches cut his face. Roots rose under his feet. He went on, his eyes half closed for fear of thorns; perspiration dripped from his forehead; his hands were stretched forward to feel his way through the darkness and foliage. He stopped suddenly. From the left, from the place where he thought were the glade of the lime-trees, the spaced trees, the mushroom-like stone table and the wicker chairs, a murmur arose, a sort of duet of violent and languorous voices. They ceased an instant, then renewed their murmur. He had an impression that his heart was shrinking, vanishing out of his body. He paused a minute, because his legs gave way under him.... Then he took up his march again, panting, bent in two like a gorilla, his hands almost touching the ground. As he crawled nearer, the voices became more distinct. Suddenly, he almost fainted. Now he perceived everything, even the familiar sound of those voices. It was an exchange of invocations so shameless, of apostrophes at once so bestial and so tender that he was utterly stupefied. Ah! only Queen Cleopatra, perhaps, could have ever fallen to that depth of shamelessness!... M. Raindal did not have the courage to look, to see. A panicky rage swept him away. He felt a frantic need to run, to escape the tortures of that infernal wood. He rushed out in a mad, furious race, now fearless of making a noise, not caring whether he betrayed himself or not, smashing the branches that stood in his way, taking his revenge on the bushes, sweating, galloping with the noise of big game running under wood before the dogs. Out of breath, he stumbled onto the lawn, and the dahlias received him. He rose quickly, his knees heavy with damp earth. He took up his march again, at a more moderate pace but yet hastily.