The rumbling of the carriages was dying out in the street; the
steps and the rustlings were less frequent in the corridor. Suddenly the
two Jeannes seemed to mingle once more and become one, who thought:
"When they announce his death to me, I shall be able to say to myself:
At least, you did that!"
She rose, turned on the light, seated herself at the writing-table,
chose a sheet of paper, and wrote:
"To Piero Maironi, the night of October 29,----
"I believe.
"JEANNE DESSALLE."
When she had written, she gazed a long, long time at the solemn words.
The longer she gazed, the farther the two Jeannes seemed to draw apart.
The unconsciously proud Jeanne overpowered and crushed the other almost
without a struggle. Filled with a mortal bitterness, she tore the sheet,
stained with the word it was impossible to maintain, impossible even
to write honestly. The light once more extinguished, she accused the
Almighty--if, indeed, He existed--of cruelty, and wept in this darkness
of her own making, wept unrestrainedly.
The clock of St.
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