me icy cold, she could not lift
it, it hung too heavily from her arm. And amid her scorching fever a
great cold shudder came upon her, immobilizing and stupefying her, while
she was deafened by the clamorous voice rising from the depths of her
being. All demur was swept away; the craving for that death remained
intense, invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the inner
voice which robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be dead
and he would never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff and
breathless against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear his
light breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of his
neck. He had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she had
raised a call she might still have changed the course of destiny even at
that last moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but she
was clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise,
took yet a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently over
that friendly ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as he
was in thoughts of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was a
loud, terrible cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crash
down below in the depths of the black darkness.

Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, still
listening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss.
She could merely hear the rain pelting on the glass roof with renewed
rage. And thereupon she fled, turned into the passage, re-entered
her drawing-room. There she collected and questioned herself. Had she
desired that abominable thing? No, her will had had nought to do with
it. Most certainly it had been paralyzed, prevented from acting. If it
had been possible for the thing to occur, it had occurred quite apart
from her, for assuredly she had been absent. Absent, that word reassured
her. Yes, indeed, that was the case, she had been absent. All her past
life spread out behind her, faultless, pure of any evil action. Never
had she sinned, never until that day had any consciousness of guilt
weighed upon her conscience. An honest and virtuous woman, she had
remained upright amidst all the excesses of her husband. An impassioned
mother, she had been ascending her calvary ever since her son's death.
And this recollection of Maurice alone drew her for a moment from her
callousness, choked her with a rising sob, as if in that di