Suddenly he grabbed hold of her wrist with brutal savagery and gripped it so hard that she stopped speaking, stifling a scream. Quietly he said to her: ‘Listen to me. I love my children! What you’ve just said is shameful coming from a mother. You’re mine, I tell you! I am master here. Your master! I can make you do exactly what I want … whenever I want. I have the law on my side!’

He tried to crush her fingers in his huge, muscular fist. White with pain, she made an effort to extract her hand from his vice-like grip. It hurt so much that she was breathless. Tears came to her eyes.

‘You see?’ he went on, ‘you see now who is the master? Who is the stronger?’

When he loosened his grip slightly, she spoke again: ‘Would you call me a practising Christian?’

Surprised, he stammered: ‘Of course I would.’

‘Do you think I believe in God?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think I could lie to you while I was swearing to something with my hand on the altar containing the body of Christ?’

‘No.’

‘Will you come with me then to a church?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘You’ll see. Will you?’

‘If you insist.’

Raising her voice she cried: ‘Philippe!’

The coachman, without taking his eyes off the horses, turned his head slightly and seemed to incline his ear towards his mistress alone.

‘Take us to the church of Saint-Philippe du Roule!’

The victoria, having just reached one of the entrances to the Bois, turned round and headed back towards Paris. Husband and wife exchanged not a word throughout the return trip. When the carriage stopped in front of the entrance to the church, Madame de Mascaret jumped down and went in, closely followed by the Comte.

She went directly to the choir railings, fell on her knees in front of a chair and began to pray. She prayed for a long time. Standing behind her, he noticed she was weeping. She wept silently as women do in moments of particularly painful sorrow. Her whole body moved in a kind of ripple, ending in a small sob which she tried to stifle with her fingers. Considering that this had gone on long enough, the Comte de Mascaret tapped her on the shoulder. She recoiled from the contact as if touched by fire. Getting to her feet she looked him once more straight in the eye.