at this moment she was unable to explain it; she had
evidently ceased to be herself; another mind and heart had controlled
her actions. Was it possible? She had done those things? Then an icy
chill ran through her; she saw Jeanne borne away beneath roses. But in
the torpor begotten of her grief she grew very calm again, once more
without a longing or curiosity, once more proceeding along the path of
duty that lay so straight before her. Life had again begun for her,
fraught with austere peacefulness and pride of honesty.

Monsieur Rambaud now moved near her to lead her from this place of
sadness. But Helene silently signed to him her wish to linger a little
longer. Approaching the parapet she gazed below into the Avenue de la
Muette, where a long line of old cabs in the last stage of decay
stretched beside the footpath. The hoods and wheels looked blanched,
the rusty horses seemed to have been rotting there since the dark
ages. Some cabmen sat motionless, freezing within their frozen cloaks.
Over the snow other vehicles were crawling along, one after the other,
with the utmost difficulty. The animals were losing their foothold,
and stretching out their necks, while their drivers with many oaths
descended from their seats and held them by the bridle; and through
the windows you could see the faces of the patient "fares," reclining
against the cushions, and resigning themselves to the stern necessity
of taking three-quarters of an hour to cover a distance which in other
weather would have been accomplished in ten minutes. The rumbling of
the wheels was deadened by the snow; only the voices vibrated upward,
sounding shrill and distinct amidst the silence of the streets; there
were loud calls, the laughing exclamations of people slipping on the
icy paths, the angry whip-cracking of carters, and the snorting of
terrified horses. In the distance, to the right, the lofty trees on
the quay seemed to be spun of glass, like huge Venetian chandeliers,
whose flower-decked arms the designer had whimsically twisted. The icy
north wind had transformed the trunks into columns, over which waved
downy boughs and feathery tufts, an exquisite tracery of black twigs
edged with white trimmings. It was freezing, and not a breath stirred
in the pure air.

Then Helene told her heart that she had known nothing of Henri. For a
year she had seen him almost every day; he had lingered for hours and
hours near her, to speak to her and gaze into her