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with me?” she groaned, over and over. Her head rocked back and forth.
    She tried to rally the dim scattered remnants of the moments she had just lived through but couldn’t. Some veto from the depths of her soul, to which her will-power had no access, opposed all her efforts and stopped her from reconstructing Renée’s chatter. Séverine walked quickly into Pierre’s den and dialled Renée’s number on the telephone.
    “Listen, darling,” she said to Renée in a voice that strove to conceal her play-acting, “I must have had some sort of blackout in that cab. Do you know I barely remember how we parted.”
    “But you seemed perfectly all right. I didn’t notice anything odd.”
    Séverine breathed again. She hadn’t given herself away. And she didn’t bother to ask herself in what way she might have done so. She just didn’t know.
    “Feeling better now?” Renée inquired.
    “Absolutely,” Séverine replied cheerfully. “I’m not even going to mention it to Pierre.”
    “Still, take care of yourself, darling. These spring evenings can be tricky. You really don’t wear enough, you know.…”
    Séverine listened impatiently, but she made no effort to cut short the conversation. She expected, she feared, she actually hoped that Renée might go on and perhaps return to that bit of scandal … If she does, Séverinetold herself, then I’m positive the whole thing will become clear to me. And in all sincerity she believed that to be her sole motive in staying on the phone.
    But Renée hadn’t finished with her good advice when Séverine heard Pierre come in. All at once the inexplicable fear which had closed on her in her room gripped her again. Should Renée talk of Henriette, Pierre would guess something. Once again, Séverine didn’t ask herself what he might guess, for in fact she had no idea; she simply hung up in a panic.
    “You’ve just come in, sweetheart?” Pierre asked her.
    “Oh no, it must have been at least ten minutes ago I.…”
    Séverine stopped in bewilderment. Why, she still had her coat on, and her hat. She rushed on: “You know what I mean … ten minutes … I can’t say exactly … probably less. I suddenly remembered I had something to ask Renée. And what with phoning her, I didn’t have time … but please don’t think.…”
    She felt that every word she uttered more and more exposed the guilt she felt, a feeling which for the life of her she couldn’t define. She stumbled out, “Just a moment. I’ll get my things off.”
    By the time she’d come back her clear, almost powerful reason had triumphed over the still unknown enemy crouching in the secret recesses of her being. But she had become fully aware of the bizarre nature of her behavior, almost delusional. She knew she wasn’t guilty of anything. Then why did she feel such a need to make excuses for herself? Why that suspicious disorder lurking in her soul?
    She kissed her husband. More than had any of her efforts of will, the feeling of security at Pierre’s touch relaxed her. For the first time in an evening whose despotic, abandoned pace belonged to some power alien to her, Séverine felt free. She gave such a sigh of healthy well-being that Pierre came out with—“Not feeling well? Had a quarrel with Renée?”
    “Darling, what an idea. On the contrary, I’m absolutely delighted. My dress is perfect and I feel like enjoying myself. Let’s go out somewhere.”
    Séverine saw that Pierre was disappointed by the idea. Only then did she remember that this was the only evening in the week they’d be alone, and that they’d decided to spend it at home together. She recalled her resolution, faithfully maintained till then, of doing everything she could to make her husband happy; but she felt it absolutely imperative to have a violent change of scene to throw back into the past those terrifying moments she’d just lived through.
    At first her plan seemed to succeed. The blazing lights and noises of the