“How could you bear it? Would you not cry out,
Among those eyes grown blind to you, those ears
That hear no more your voice you hear the same,
God! what is left but hell for company,
But hell, hell, hell—until the name so breathed
Whirled with hot wind and sucked you down in fire.”
—D. G. Rossetti, A Last Confession.
Madame Veuve Geffroi possessed to a singular degree the faculty of knowing her own mind, and also, commonly, that of expressing with accuracy and point the resolutions at which, from time to time, she arrived by the assistance of this quality. When, therefore, she took her way between seven and eight that evening to her hay-loft, with the intent of presenting an ultimatum to its temporary inhabitants, the clearness of her mental vision was momentarily obscured by the sight of one of them seated on her chopping-log in the shed, near the foot of the ladder, with his head buried in his hands. In the failing light this figure startled and almost disconcerted her, and she gave vent to a little exclamation. The Marquis raised a ghastly face and looked at her dizzily.
“Bon Dieu! what is the matter with you?” ejaculated Madame Geffroi.
Gilbert rose mechanically.