She uttered a long moan of satisfaction. He embraced her violently, smothered her mouth with his lips, and to get it over with as quickly as possible immediately penetrated her. Inside it was red, a deep dark red as in the too-red living room. She began to groan and to utter words and phrases the way she used to. But in those days, Henri's love shielded her; her cries, groans, laughs, bites were sacred offerings. Tonight he was lying atop a frenzied woman who spoke obscene words and whose scratches hurt. He was horrified by her and by himself. Her head bent back, her eyes half-closed, her teeth bared, she had given herself so totally to love, was so frightfully lost, that he felt like slapping her to bring her back to earth, felt like saying, "It's just you and I and we're making love, that's all." It seemed to him as if he were raping a dead woman, or a lunatic, and yet he could not keep himself from enjoying it.

When finally he fell limp on Paula, he heard a triumphant moan.

'Are you happy?' she murmured.

'Of course.'

'I'm so terribly happy!' Paula exclaimed, looking at him through shining tear-brimmed eyes. He hid her unbearably bright face against his shoulder. 'The almond trees will be in bloom ...' he said to himself, closing his eyes. 'And there'll be oranges hanging from the orange trees.'