Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs and the clattering of a stick; and a voice rose—a raucous voice—that sang—
“Maids in the warmth of a summer day
Dream of love and of love always”
Emma raised herself like a galvanised corpse, her hair undone, her eyes fixed, staring.
“Where the sickle blades have been,
Nannette, gathering ears of corn,
Passes bending down, my queen,
To the earth where they were born.”
“The blind man!” she cried. And Emma began to laugh, an atrocious, frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw the hideous face of the poor wretch that stood out against the eternal night like a menace.
“The wind is strong this summer day,
Her petticoat has flown away.”
She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion. They all drew near. She was dead.
Chapter Nine
There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction; so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that she did not move, Charles threw himself upon her, crying—
“Farewell! farewell!”