his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels, like
he used to do as a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up
and began over again. And between each time, he began to sing again:

_Oh! how nice, how nice it is,
To pick the sweet, wild strawberries._

Suddenly he found himself on the edge of a deep road and in the road he
saw a tall girl, a servant who was returning to the village with two
pails of milk. He watched, stooping down and with his eyes as bright as
those of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her head and
said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however, but
jumped down into the road, although it was at least six feet down, and
when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she exclaimed: "Oh!
dear, how you frightened me!"

But he did not hear her for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by another
requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more feverish than
alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has been in want of
everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is young, ardent and
inflamed by all the appetites which nature has implanted in the vigorous
flesh of men.

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his
half open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the
shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.

She let her two pails fall and they rolled over noisily, all the milk
was spilt and then she screamed, but comprehending that it would be of
no use to call for help in that lonely spot and seeing that he was not