The second story in the collection, “The Monologue,” shifts to a raw, unmediated stream-of-consciousness, plunging the reader directly into the chaotic and embittered mind of its narrator, Murielle. This narrative form immerses the reader in her psychological state, which leaves her reliability suspect as the narrative makes it ambiguous whether Murielle is stating an objective truth or if she has adopted her subjective perceptions of the events in her life as the truth. The sentences in this story are long, breathless, and punctuated by rage, spiraling from complaints about noisy neighbors to bitter memories of her childhood and the death of her daughter. Murielle’s self-assessment as someone who is “clean” and “straight” (92) is immediately contradicted by the vitriolic tone of her voice. She presents herself as a clear-sighted truth-teller who “tear[s] masks off,” but her perspective is warped by jealousy, paranoia, and self-pity. By structuring the chapter as an unbroken interior rant, the narrative forces an uncomfortable intimacy with Murielle’s psyche, denying the reader any objective viewpoint and making her deep isolation a palpable, claustrophobic experience.

Murielle’s physical confinement within her apartment on New Year’s Eve is a powerful symbol of her social and psychological imprisonment. The sounds of celebration from the outside world are ironically torturous, a constant reminder of the life from which she is excluded. She attempts to block them out, but “the noises come in through the walls” (89), representing the inescapable reality of a world she perceives as hostile. The apartment becomes a “cage” (108) and a “filthy hole” (101), a physical manifestation of her internal state of decay and isolation. Her feeling of being besieged is also spatial; the neighbors dancing overhead feel like a physical assault, as if they are “going to break through the ceiling” (93). This setting transforms from a simple domestic space into a pressure cooker for her rage and despair, showing her alienation and powerlessness.

The monologue relentlessly explores Motherhood as a Limited Source of Self-Fulfillment through Murielle’s toxic and contradictory relationships with her own mother and her deceased daughter, Sylvie. She frames her mother as a monstrous figure who was physically abusive and sexually manipulative, even suggesting an affair with Murielle’s own husband, Albert. In stark contrast, Murielle presents herself as the ideal, “devoted” mother whose “life’s work” (106) was destroyed by Sylvie’s accidental death by suicide. This self-portrait cracks under the weight of her own admissions. She confesses to reading Sylvie’s diary, attempting to control her friendships, and, most tellingly, tearing up her daughter’s suicide note. This act of destruction silences Sylvie’s final voice, allowing Murielle to maintain her narrative of blameless victimhood. The accusatory shriek she attributes to her own mother, in which her mother declares ”You’ve killed her!” (114), reverberates through her memory, hinting at a deep, unacknowledged guilt that she projects onto everyone around her.

Murielle’s desperate reliance on men for her identity and security exemplifies The Trap of Gender Roles. Her worldview is predicated on the idea that “a woman alone is spat on” (96), believing a man’s presence would magically command respect from the plumber, the concierge, and the neighbors. Her financial and emotional dependency on her separated husband, Tristan, is absolute. Instead of a sincere plea for reconciliation, the frantic late-night call she makes to him is a desperate negotiation for a return to a stable social position. She offers to let him “have all the Fanny Hills you like” (117) as long as she can live under his roof, reducing their relationship to a transactional arrangement for the sake of her own security and the custody of their son. When Tristan ultimately denies her, Murielle turns her attention to God, a telltale sign that she is embodying Beauvoir’s archetype of “the Mystic,” a woman who surrenders her freedom by investing it in an absolute ideal like God. This underscores Murielle’s self-perception as a blameless victim who has constantly been undermined by the various forces that surrounded her. She cannot transcend her situation precisely because she believes she is powerless to affect it.

Throughout the monologue, the telephone is an important symbol of both connection and alienation. Murielle’s confession that she would “rather have my ears shattered than hear the telephone not ringing” (89) reveals her paradoxical state: She is terrified of silence and abandonment yet incapable of genuine communication. When she does use the phone, it is as a weapon for delivering accusations and ultimatums. The abrupt hang-ups from her mother and Tristan are therefore the definitive severing of her last lifelines, each one amplifying her isolation. After Tristan hangs up, the finality of the silence precipitates her mental health crisis. The telephone, a tool designed to bridge distance, ultimately confirms the unbridgeable chasm between Murielle and the rest of the world, reinforcing the failure of her attempts to manipulate others into alleviating her deep loneliness.