n your child. Make her speak, above all things make her weep, to
rid her of the burden that is stifling her, so that her tear-dimmed eyes
can no longer distinguish in space that horrible unknown thing upon which
they are fixed in desperation now.

For nearly a month past, ever since the day when Sidonie came and took
Frantz away in her coupe, Desiree had known that she was no longer loved,
and she knew her rival's name. She bore them no ill-will, she pitied them
rather. But, why had he returned? Why had he so heedlessly given her
false hopes? How many tears had she devoured in silence since those
hours! How many tales of woe had she told her little birds! For once more
it was work that had sustained her, desperate, incessant work, which, by
its regularity and monotony, by the constant recurrence of the same
duties and the same motions, served as a balance-wheel to her thoughts.

Lately Frantz was not altogether lost to her. Although he came but rarely
to see her, she knew that he was there, she could hear him go in and out,
pace, the floor with restless step, and sometimes, through the half-open
door, see his loved shadow hurry across the landing. He did not seem
happy. Indeed, what happiness could be in store for him? He loved his
brother's wife. And at the thought that Frantz was not happy, the fond
creature almost forgot her own sorrow to think only of the sorrow of the
man she loved.

She was well aware that it was impossible that he could ever love her
again. But she thought that perhaps she would see him come in some day,
wounded and dying, that he would sit down on the little low chair, lay
his head on her knees, and with a great sob tell her of his suffering and
say to her, "Comfort me."

That forlorn hope kept her alive for three weeks. She needed so little as
that.

But no. Even that was denied her. Frantz had gone, gone without a glance
for her, without a parting word. The lover's desertion was followed by
the desertion of the friend. It was horrible!

At her father's first words, she felt as if she were hurled into a deep,
ice-cold abyss, filled with darkness, into which she plunged swiftly,
helplessly, well knowing that she would never return to the light. She
was suffocating. She would have liked to resist, to struggle, to call for
help.

Who was there who had the power to sustain her in that great disaster?

God? The thing that is called Heaven?

She did not even think of that. In Paris, especia