Part 11 (2/2)

I have a feeling that Jeanne is sitting upstairs in mortal terror. I sit here with my pen in my hand like a weapon of defence. If I could only make up my mind to ring....

There, it is done! My hand is trembling like an aspen leaf, but I must not let her see that I am frightened. I must behave as though nothing had happened.

Poor girl! She rushed into the room without knocking, pale as a corpse, her eyes starting from her head. She clung to me like a child that has just awakened from a bad dream.

What is the matter with us? We are both terrified. The fog seems to have affected our wits.

I have lit every lamp and candle, and they flicker fitfully, like Jeanne's eyes.

The fog is getting more and more dense. Jeanne is sitting on the sofa, her hand pressed to her heart, and I seem to hear it beating, even from here.

I feel as though some one were dying near me--here in the room.

Joergen, is it you? Answer me, is it you?

Ah! I must have gone mad.... I am not superst.i.tious, only depressed.

All the doors are locked and the shutters barred. There is not a sound.

I cannot hear anything moving outside.

It is just this dead silence that frightens us.... Yes, that is what it is....

Now Jeanne is asleep. I can hardly see her through the fog.

She sits there like a shadow, an apparition, and the fog floats over her red hair like smoke over a fire.

I know nothing whatever about her. She is as reserved about her own concerns as I am about mine. Yet I feel as though during this hour of intense fear and agitation I had seen into the depths of her soul. I understand her, because we are both women. She suffers from the eternal unrest of the blood.

She has had a shock to her inmost feelings. At some time or other she has been so deeply wounded that she cannot live again in peace.

She and I have so much in common that we might be blood-relations. But we ought not to live under the same roof as mistress and servant.

Gradually the fog is dispersing, and the lights burn brighter. I seem to follow Jeanne's dreams as they pa.s.s beneath her brow. Her mouth has fallen a little open, as if she were dead. Every moment she starts up; but when she sees me she smiles and drops off again. Good heavens, how utterly exhausted she seems after these hours of fear!

But somebody _is_ there! Yes ... outside ... there between the trees ...

I see somebody coming....

It is only Torp, with her lantern, and the dressmaker from the neighbouring village. The moment she opened the bas.e.m.e.nt door and I heard her voice I felt quite myself again.

<script>