Her teeth
chattered, she turned paler than the ray of moonlight which illuminated
her. The man spoke not a word. He began to ascend towards the Place de
Greve, holding her by the hand.

At that moment, she had a vague feeling that destiny is an irresistible
force. She had no more resistance left in her, she allowed herself to be
dragged along, running while he walked. At this spot the quay ascended.
But it seemed to her as though she were descending a slope.

She gazed about her on all sides. Not a single passer-by. The quay was
absolutely deserted. She heard no sound, she felt no people moving save
in the tumultuous and glowing city, from which she was separated only by
an arm of the Seine, and whence her name reached her, mingled with cries
of "Death!" The rest of Paris was spread around her in great blocks of
shadows.

Meanwhile, the stranger continued to drag her along with the same
silence and the same rapidity. She had no recollection of any of the
places where she was walking. As she passed before a lighted window, she
made an effort, drew up suddenly, and cried out, "Help!"

The bourgeois who was standing at the window opened it, appeared there
in his shirt with his lamp, stared at the quay with a stupid air,
uttered some words which she did not understand, and closed his shutter
again. It was her last gleam of hope extinguished.

The man in black did not utter a syllable; he held her firmly, and set
out again at a quicker pace. She no longer resisted, but followed him,
completely broken.

From time to time she called together a little strength, and said, in a
voice broken by the unevenness of the pavement and the breathlessness of
their flight, "Who are you? Who are you?" He made no reply.

They arrived thus, still keeping along the quay, at a tolerably spacious
square. It was the Greve. In the middle, a sort of black, erect cross
was visible; it was the gallows. She recognized all this, and saw where
she was.

The man halted, turned towards her and raised his cowl.

"Oh!" she stammered, almost petrified, "I knew well that it was he
again!"

It was the priest. He looked like the ghost of himself; that is an
effect of the moonlight, it seems as though one beheld only the spectres
of things in that light.

"Listen!" he said to her; and she shuddered at the sound of that fatal
voice which she had not heard for a long time. He continued speaking
with those brief and panting jerks, which betoken deep i