The level rays of the moon poured in, flooding the room with light.
"Good-night, moon," said Chérie. "Good-night, sky. Good-night, world." Then she turned away and went to the cradle. She bent over it, and lifted her sleeping infant in her arms. How warm he was! How warm and soft and tender!... He must not catch cold.... Instinctively Chérie caught up her wide blue silk scarf and wrapped it round herself and the child. They were going out into the night air, out into the chilly moonlight; they were going to cross the bridge over the Ourthe, and then go up the lower bank of the river, up through the dank grasses, past the old mill.... There, where the bank shelved down so steeply she would run into the water.
She knew what it would feel like. Last year, had she not run into the rippling waves at Westende every morning? She remembered it well.
Yes; she would feel the cool chill embrace of the water rising from her feet to her knees ... to her waist ... to her breast ... to her throat.... Then she would clasp her arms tightly round her child, putting her lips close to his so as not to hear him cry, and her last breath would be exhaled on the sweet warmth of that little mouth, the dear little open mouth that seemed always to be asking for the balm of milk and kisses.
She raised her eyes once more to the open window. "Good-bye," she said again to the sky, to the world, and to life. Then she resolutely turned away from the shining circle of light.
She drew the long blue scarf over her own head and shoulders, crossing it over her arms and wrapping the infant in its azure folds as she held him to her breast. Then she opened the door.
The red curtain fell in a straight line before her, and she pushed it softly aside; it slid smoothly back on its rings.
Clasping her infant in the shimmering folds of blue, she took a step forward—then stopped and stood transfixed in the doorway.
Some one was there! Some one was standing silent, there in the dark.
Who was it?