ich the blood and agony of a heart had mounted together. She
saw it once more with the faculty which the second sight of memory
separates from its surroundings. And that face, as it became clearer to
her, caused her less terror. It appeared to her, divesting itself, as it
were, of its fear-inspiring, horrifying qualities. Suffering alone
remained, but it was the suffering of expiation, almost of prayer, the
suffering of a dead face that would like to weep. And as its expression
grew ever milder, mademoiselle came at last to see in it a glance of
supplication, of supplication that, at last, compelled her pity.
Insensibly there glided into her reflections indulgent thoughts,
suggestions of apology that surprised herself. She asked herself if the
poor girl was as guilty as others, if she had deliberately chosen the
path of evil, if life, circumstances, the misfortune of her body and her
destiny, had not made her the creature she had been, a creature of love
and sorrow. Suddenly she stopped: she was on the point of forgiving her!

One morning she leaped out of bed.

"Here! you--you other!" she cried to her housekeeper, "the devil take
your name! I can't remember it. Give me my clothes, quick! I have to go
out."

"The idea, mademoiselle--just look at the roofs, they're all white."

"Well, it snows, that's all."

Ten minutes later, Mademoiselle de Varandeuil said to the driver of the
cab she had sent for:

"Montmartre Cemetery!"

LXX

In the distance an enclosure wall extended, perfectly straight, as far
as the eye could see. The thread of snow that marked the outline of its
coping gave it a dirty, rusty color. In a corner at the left three
leafless trees reared their bare black branches against the sky. They
rustled sadly, with the sound of pieces of dead wood stirred by the
south wind. Above these trees, behind the wall and close against it,
arose the two arms from which hung one of the last oil-lamps in Paris. A
few snow-covered roofs were scattered here and there; beyond, the hill
of Montmartre rose sharply, its white shroud broken by oases of brown
earth and sandy patches. Low gray walls followed the slope, surmounted
by gaunt, stunted trees whose branches had a bluish tint in the mist, as
far as two black windmills. The sky was of a leaden hue, with occasional
cold, bluish streaks as if ink had been applied with a brush! over
Montmartre there was a light streak, of a yellow color, like the Seine
water