...of contempt

"'You' have a way of staring at people..." We remain motionless for a moment, huddled up close to one another, all grey, little sparrows lined up on a wire, a trembling bunch of sickly monkeys, and then, in her, something that had lain dormant - the very thing that had frightened me so, the reason why I had so weakly lined up on her side, against him - something inside her begins to stretch, to deploy, to rise up... the envelope in which the charm had enclosed her crackles, splits, now he too is afraid, I know it, a scatterbrained little fox-terrier that has imprudently stuck its nose in a snake's hole - she appears, hard, icy, pitiless, she examines him from an immense distance... the lady with the unicorn, the costly statuette, the far-away princess... "I didn't take so much as that with me, you hear me, when I went away... I left everything, from one day to the next"... she was lying on her bed, her cheek in her hand, reading a novel, he was walking up and down, endlessly talking, shouting, everywhere they went he collected crowds with his continual scenes of jealousy, his reproaches, his shouts, he called her every known name, a whore, she was nothing but that, a dirty little whore... so that was life together, their life? that was what people called life together! it had been hell from the start, he had always known it from the start, all she wanted was his money... why didn't she leave, she could go to the devil, into the gutter... where she belonged... she needn't count on him to go after her... he left, slamming the door, he came back... already, on their wedding trip in Syria, when he had caught the fever... such cold-heartedness, such callousness on the part of a mere girl... not an atom of affection or sympathy, less than for the chauffeur, less than for her dog... but why doesn't she speak, why doesn't she answer, he came towards her clenching his fists, grabbed her book from her hands, why doesn't she say something... she remained unmoved, her face set, her eyes lowered, pretending to read... he was sobbing, his head leaning against the door-frame, he was alone, done for, he wouldn't be able to stand it... just one word, never an affectionate or fond word, not even his first name the way his mother used to call him... but she had never been able to call him by his first name... she should say what she wanted, anything she wanted, they had been together ten years, their child... everything was ready, the taxi was waiting downstairs, she had passed erect in her travelling suit, with veil lowered and gloves fastened, the chauffeur carrying her valise... I felt I wanted to implore her, to protect him, she should forgive him, she shouldn't pay any attention to him, he's so ind, only awkward, nervous, flares up easily... She stares at him for a long time without speaking and he looks away. Her lip curls as she turns on him a "look of disdain": "What's got into you, anyway?"

[Martereau, Sarraute, N.]