ve their footsteps and above the avalanche of their bodies, I hear
the shrill cries of the young girls.

They are leaving the drawing-room; it sounds as if they were
approaching.

Don't come here. Even if it is dark in this room, even if I have wept,
and even if the walls have taken on this aspect of distress, it does not
mean that I can be reduced to your level.

The galop moves faster, wilder. The chain in the center is flung
together in a heap, those at the end are almost scattered. The last one
waves his arm in the air. The noise sickens me.

The floor of my room quivers. I will go down, I will go down to them....

But not yet....

III

It is done....

How shall I bring myself to believe it, how tell myself it is true, that
_it_ is done, that it is an accomplished fact? And why is it that an
absurd recollection obsesses me instead of the thing that has just taken
place? Recollections are not considerate. They thrust themselves upon
you willy-nilly.... It was one day when I was still little and wore my
hair in a plait down my back tied with a red ribbon. An idea struck me
and set me all a-quiver, to surprise my mother by secretly filling her
vase with flowers, the beautiful blue vase with the band of gold, erect
on its massive pedestal like a slim thing on a throne. I was very
careful, I held my breath, my movements were sedulously controlled....
The vase toppled and made a clear, ringing sound. I can still hear it.
My father came in unexpectedly. He stopped--he always was severe--took
me by the shoulder, and shook me like a wind-tossed sapling. Then he
dragged me to my room and on the threshold gave me a slap which sent me
staggering. There was a whistling in my ears. I was drunk, dazed,
completely bewildered.... Then he shut the door.

When I came to my senses, I ran to the glass, I don't know why, for
nothing, "just to see." A wine-colored mark streaked with red was
spreading over my cheek. I held the back of my hand up and felt the glow
even without touching it.

It was burning, but, oddly enough, it did not hurt. I was conscious of
not suffering pain, and instantly a sadness filled me, utter and sudden
as a bitter flood. I didn't know why I was sad. Even now I only glimpse
the reason imperfectly. Children who are simple are also more subtle
than we. It was my fate to be defrauded, not to have a definite reason
for shedding tears over myself, not to suffer in real earnest from an
undeserved punishm