ection, as she hastened
along at random in a pitiable state of bewilderment. What a horrible
downfall! Five minutes ago, rich, encompassed by all the respect and
comforts of a luxurious existence. Now, nothing! Not even a roof to
shelter her, not even a name! The street.

Where was she to go? What would become of her?

At first she had thought of her son. But to confess her sin, to blush
before the child who respected her, to weep before him while depriving
herself of the right to be consoled, was beyond her strength. No, there
was nothing left for her but death. To die as soon as possible, to avoid
shame by disappearing utterly, the inevitable end of situations from
which there is no escape. But where to die? And how? There were so many
ways of turning one's back on life! And as she walked along she reviewed
them all in her mind. All around her was overflowing life, the charm
that Paris lacks in winter, the open-air display of its splendor, its
refined elegance, visible at that hour of the day and that season of the
year around the Madeleine and its flower-market, in a space marked off
by the fragrance of the roses and carnations. On the broad sidewalk,
where gorgeous toilets were displayed, blending their rustling with the
cool quivering of the leaves, there was something of the pleasure of a
meeting in a salon, an air of acquaintance among the promenaders, smiles
and quiet greetings as they passed. And suddenly Madame Jenkins, anxious
concerning the distress depicted on her features, and concerning what
people might think to see her hurrying along with that heedless,
preoccupied manner, slackened her pace to the saunter of a simple
promenader, and stopped to look at the shop windows. The bright-colored,
gauzy window displays all spoke of travelling, of the country: light
trains for the fine gravel of the park, hats wrapped about with gauze as
a protection against the sun at the seashore, fans, umbrellas, purses.
Her eyes gazed at all those gewgaws without seeing them; but an
indistinct, pale reflection in the clear glass showed her her own body
lying motionless on a bed in a furnished lodging, the leaden sleep of a
narcotic in her head, or outside the walls yonder, displacing the mud
beneath some boat. Which was the better?

She hesitated, comparing the two; then, having formed her decision,
walked rapidly away with the resolute stride of the woman who tears
herself regretfully from the artful temptations of the sh