Nicolas Naumoff springs from the gondola, crosses the empty Campo and reaches the house. He ascends the steps quickly, knocks, enters—and closes the door behind him.)
Yes, it is too late.
I hear myself shrieking with laughter as I fall back on my pillows. Soon I am surrounded by strangers who hold me down, who thrust opiates between my lips, who lay soothing hands and cooling compresses on my brow. Then I know nothing more.
········
Elise Perrier's terrified face surges out of the darkness: she is speaking quickly, she is bending over me, imploring and urging.... What does she say? She weeps despairingly, and ever through her tears she speaks, urging and imploring.
Finally, in her thin arms, she drags me from my bed; she dresses me; she wraps a cloak about me, and hurries backwards and forwards with traveling-bags and satchels. Now we are in a carriage—no, we are in a train. Elise Perrier sits opposite me, with ashen face and her hands in gray cotton gloves tightly folded. Her lips move. She is praying.
Suddenly I struggle to my feet: “Paul!...”
As I scream the name Elise springs upon me, covering my mouth with her cotton glove, pressing my head to her breast. “Silence! hush, hush, for the love of heaven! They will hear you. Hush!”
“Is he dead, Elise, is he dead?”