to tremble for. She shivers
at the thought of being found here, of being asked, "Who are you?" She
will have to go to the police station, and all the world will know about
it--her husband--her child. She cannot understand why she has stood
there motionless so long. She need not stay here--she can do no good
here--and she is only courting disaster for herself. She makes a step
forward--Careful! the ditch is here--she crosses it--how wet it is--two
paces more and she is in the middle of the street. She halts a moment,
looks straight ahead, and can finally distinguish the gray line of the
road leading onward into darkness. There--over there--lies the city. She
cannot see it, but she knows the way. She turns once more. It does
not seem so dark now. She can see the carriage and the horses quite
distinctly--and, looking hard, she seems to see the outline of a human
body on the ground. Her eyes open wide. Something seems to clutch at her
and hold her here--it is he--she feels his power to keep her with him.
With an effort she frees herself. Then she perceives that
it was the soft mud of the road that held her. And she walks
onward--faster--faster--her pace quickens to a run. Only to be away from
here, to be back in the light--in the noise--among men. She runs along
the street, raising her skirt high, that her steps may not be hindered.
The wind is behind her, and seems to push her along. She does not know
what it is she flees from. Is it the pale man back there by the ditch?
No, now she knows, she flees the living, not the dead, the living, who
will soon be there, and who will look for her. What will they think?
Will they follow her? But they cannot catch up with her now, she is so
far away, she is nearing the bridge, there is danger. No one can know
who she was, no one can possibly imagine who the woman was who drove
down through the country road with the dead man. The driver does not
know her; he would not recognize her if he should ever see her again.
They will not take the trouble to find out who she is. Who cares? It was
wise of her not to stay--and it was not cowardly either. Franz himself
would say it was wise. She must go home; she has a husband, a child; she
would be lost if any one should see her there with her dead lover. There
is the bridge; the street seems lighter--she hears the water beneath
her. She stands there, where they stood together, arm in arm--when was
it? How many hours ago? It cannot be long since then