He, partaking of her feverishness, was already at the door, as he replied:
“No, no! Take nothing whatever. Let us go at once.”
“Yes, let us go. That is the best thing to do.”
And she rejoined him. But she turned round, wishing to give a last look at the chamber. The lamp was burning with the same soft light, the bouquet of hydrangeas and hollyhocks was blooming as ever, and in her work-frame the unfinished rose, bright and natural as life, seemed to be waiting for her. But the room itself especially affected her. Never before had it seemed so white and pure to her; the walls, the bed, the air even, appeared as if filled with a clear, white breath.
Something within her wavered, and she was obliged to lean heavily against the back of a chair that was near her and not far from the door.
“What is the matter?” asked Felicien anxiously.
She did not reply, but breathed with great difficulty. Then, seized with a trembling, she could no longer bear her weight on her feet, but was forced to sit down.
“Do not be anxious; it is nothing. I only want to rest for a minute and then we will go.”
They were silent. She continued to look round the room as if she had forgotten some valuable object there, but could not tell what it was. It was a regret, at first slight, but which rapidly increased and filled her heart by degrees, until it almost stifled her. She could no longer collect her thoughts. Was it this mass of whiteness that kept her back? She had always adored white, even to such a degree as to collect bits of silk and revel over them in secret.
“One moment, just one moment more, and we will go away, my dear Seigneur.”