owery balconies, and patches
of green seen on the boulevards, light and soft among the narrow, hard
prospects of stone. Mme. Jenkins hurried in this direction, walking
aimlessly, in a dull stupor. What a horrible crash! Five minutes ago
rich, surrounded by all the respect and comfort of easy circumstances.
Now--nothing. Not even a roof to sleep under, 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 acknowledge her fault, to
blush before her own child, to weep while taking from him the right to
console her, was more than she could do. No, there was nothing for her
but death. To die as soon as possible, to escape shame by a complete
disappearance, to unravel in this way an inextricable situation. But
where to die! How? There are so many ways of departure! And she called
them all up mentally while she walked. Life flowed around her, its
luxury at this time of the year in full flower, round the Madeleine
and its market, in a space marked off by the perfume of carnations and
roses. On the wide footpath were well-dressed women whose skirts mingled
their rustle with the trembling of the young leaves; there was some of
the pleasure here of a meeting in a drawing-room, an air of acquaintance
among the passers-by, of smiles and discreet greetings in passing. And
all at once Mme. Jenkins, anxious lest her features might betray her,
fearing what might be thought if any one saw her rushing on so blindly,
slackened her pace to the aimless gait of an afternoon walk, stopping
here and there. The light materials of the dresses spoke of summer,
of the country; a thin skirt for the sandy paths of the parks,
gauze-trimmed hats for the seaside, fans, sunshades. Her fixed eyes
fastened on these trifles without seeing them; but in a vague and pale
reflection in the clear windows she saw her image, lying motionless on
the bed of some hotel, the leaden sleep of a poison in her head; or,
down there, beyond the walls, among the slime of some sunken boat. Which
of the two was better?

She hesitated, considered, compared; then, her decision made, started
off with the resolved air of a woman tearing herself regretfully
from the temptations of the window. As she moved away, the Marquis de
Monpavon, proud and well-dressed, a flower in his coat, saluted her at
a distance with that sweep of the hat so dear to women's vanity, the
well-bred brow, with the hat lifted high above t