When she rose that morning Boule de Suif had been in such haste and trepidation that she had had no time to think of anything. Choking with rage, she now looked on as around her all these people carried on calmly eating. A wave of anger surged over her and she opened her mouth to release the torrent of abuse she felt rising within her. It was so deep, however, that she was unable to utter a word. No one looked at her. No one gave her a thought. She felt overwhelmed by the contempt of these respectable swine who, having used her as a scapegoat, now rejected her as something unclean. She thought then about her great big basket full of the goodies they had greedily devoured – her two glistening chickens in aspic, her pears and her four bottles of claret. Suddenly, like a piece of string stretched to breaking-point, her anger collapsed and left her on the verge of tears. She tried desperately to control her feelings, bracing herself and swallowing back her sobs like a child. The tears welled up regardless, glistening at the tips of her eyelids. Soon two great drops, brimming over, fell and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Others followed, flowing faster. Like drops of water trickling from a rock they fell in steady succession on to the rounded curve of her bosom. She sat erect, staring directly ahead with a set expression. She hoped no one would notice.

The Comtesse, however, did, and nudged her husband. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘Well? It’s nothing to do with me.’ Madame Loiseau gave a quiet snigger of triumph and muttered, ‘She’s crying from shame, that’s all.’ The two nuns, having rewrapped the remainder of their saucisson, returned to their prayers.

Then Cornudet still digesting his eggs stretched out his long legs under the seat opposite, leaned back, folded his arms and smiled. He had just thought of a great joke: softly, he began to whistle the Marseillaise.

Across every face a shadow fell. The song of the Republic was obviously not a favourite of his neighbours. They shifted about uncomfortably in their seats and looked ready to howl like dogs at a barrel-organ. Well aware of its effect he continued with the song regardless. From time to time he even mouthed some of the words:

Amour sacré de la patrie,
Conduis, soutiens, nos bras vengeurs,
Liberté, liberté chérie,
Combats avec tes défenseurs!

(O sacred love of Fatherland,
Guide and support our venging hands,
Dear freedom, dearest Liberty,
Staunch guardians with us ever be!)

They were gathering speed since the snow was harder now. All the way to Dieppe, throughout the long, tedious hours of the journey along the bumpy roads, as twilight turned to night inside the coach, he kept up his monotonous, vengeful whistling, dinning into his weary and exasperated companions every word and every note.