The Woman Destroyed Read Online Free PDF

senile obstinacy.”
    “That’s enough. I shall never see you again as long as I live.”
    I hung up: I sat down, sweating, trembling, my legs too weak to hold me. We had broken off forever more than once; but this clash was really serious. I should never see him again. His turning his coat sickened me, and his words had hurt me deeply because he had meant them to hurt deeply.
    “He insulted us. He spoke of our senile obstinacy. I shall never see him again, and I don’t want you to see him again either.”
    “You were pretty hard, too. You should never have treated it on an emotional basis.”
    “And just why not? He has not taken our feelings into account at all. He has put his career first, before us, and he is willing to pay the price of a break.…”
    “He had not expected any break. Besides, there won’t be one: I won’t have it.’ ”
    “As far as I’m concerned it’s there already: everything’sover between Philippe and me.” I closed my mouth: I was still quivering with anger.
    “For some time now Philippe has been very odd and shifty,” said André. “You would not admit it, but I saw it clearly enough. Still, I should never have believed he could have reached that point.”
    “He’s just an ambitious little rat.”
    “Yes,” said André in a puzzled voice. “But why?”
    “What do you mean, why?”
    “As we were saying the other evening, we certainly have our share of responsibility.” He hesitated. “It was you who put ambition into his mind; left to himself he was comparatively apathetic. And no doubt I built up an antagonism in him.”
    “It’s all Irène’s fault,” I burst out. “If he had not married her, if he had not got into that environment, he would never have ratted.”
    “But he did marry her, and he married her partly because he found people of that environment impressive. For a long time now his values have no longer been ours. I can see a great many reasons—”
    “You’re not going to stand up for him.”
    “I’m trying to find an explanation.”
    “No explanation will ever convince me. I shall never see him again. And I don’t want you to see him, either.”
    “Make no mistake about this. I disapprove of him. I disapprove very strongly. But I shall see him again. So will you.”
    “No, I shan’t. And if you let me down, after what he said to me on the telephone, I’ll take it more unkindly—I’ll resent it more than I have ever resented anything you’ve done all my life. Don’t talk to me about him anymore.”
    But we could not talk of anything else, either. We had dinner almost in silence, very quickly, and then each of us took up a book. I felt bitter ill will against Irène, against André, against the world in general. “We certainly have our share of responsibility.” How trifling it was to look for reasons and excuses. “Your senile obstinacy”: he had shouted those words at me. I had been so certain of his love for us, for me: in actual fact I did not amount to anything much—I was nothing to him; just some old object to be filed away among the minor details. All I had to do was to file him away in the same fashion. The whole night through I choked with resentment. The next morning, as soon as André was gone, I went into Philippe’s room, tore up the old letters, flung out the old papers, filled one suitcase with his books, piled his pullover, pajamas, and everything that was left in the cupboards into another. Looking at the bare shelves I felt my eyes fill with tears. So many moving, overwhelming memories rose up within me. I wrung their necks for them. He had left me, betrayed me, jeered at me, insulted me. I should never forgive him.
    Two days went by without our mentioning Philippe. The third morning, as we were looking at our post, I said to André, “A letter from Philippe.”
    “I imagine he is saying he’s sorry.”
    “He’s wasting his time. I shan’t read it.”
    “Oh, but have a look at it, though. You know how hard