Charles was there; she saw him; he spoke to her; she heard nothing, and

she went on quickly up the stairs, breathless, distraught, dumb, and

ever holding this horrible piece of paper, that crackled between her

fingers like a plate of sheet-iron. On the second floor she stopped

before the attic door, which was closed.

Then she tried to calm herself; she recalled the letter; she must finish

it; she did not dare to. And where? How? She would be seen! "Ah, no!

here," she thought, "I shall be all right."

Emma pushed open the door and went in.

The slates threw straight down a heavy heat that gripped her temples,

stifled her; she dragged herself to the closed garret-window. She drew

back the bolt, and the dazzling light burst in with a leap.

Opposite, beyond the roofs, stretched the open country till it was lost

to sight. Down below, underneath her, the village square was empty; the

stones of the pavement glittered, the weathercocks on the houses were

motionless. At the corner of the street, from a lower storey, rose a

kind of humming with strident modulations. It was Binet turning.

She leant against the embrasure of the window, and reread the letter

with angry sneers. But the more she fixed her attention upon it, the

more confused were her ideas. She saw him again, heard him, encircled

him with her arms, and throbs of her heart, that beat against her breast

like blows of a sledge-hammer, grew faster and faster, with uneven

intervals. She looked about her with the wish that the earth might

crumble into pieces. Why not end it all? What restrained her? She was

free. She advanced, looking at the paving-stones, saying to herself,

"Come! come!"

The luminous ray that came straight up from below drew the weight of

her body towards the abyss. It seemed to her that the ground of the

oscillating square went up the walls and that the floor dipped on

end like a tossing boat. She was right at the edge, almost hanging,

surrounded by vast space. The blue of the heavens suffused her, the air

was whirling in her hollow head; she had but to yield, to let herself

be taken; and the humming of the lathe never ceased, like an angry voice

calling her.

"Emma! Emma!" cried Charles.

She stopped.

"Wherever are you? Come!"

The thought that she had just escaped from death almost made her faint

with terror. She closed her eyes; then she shivered at the touch of a

hand on her sleeve; it was Felicite.




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