It was the truth, and yet it was--just as much and as little the truth as she had confessed in that first terrible letter. It was possible to write this letter and that letter, and many another; but the truth, the genuine, illuminating, naked truth, would not be in any.
She herself did not know what it was, and no one else knew.
The truth had dissolved into nothingness the moment after the events to which it related had happened, and no power on earth could conjure it up again. A distorted mirage, changing with her mood and as her pen moved over the paper, was all that was left of it.
"But I don't want to tell any more lies," she cried to herself, tearing up the second letter. "To-day, at any rate, I want to speak the truth."
Should she write a third letter?
It was long past midnight. Her eyes burned. Over-excitement made her temples throb. And to-morrow morning he must have his answer, as she had sworn he should.
Then suddenly she awakened to a consciousness of what had really been happening, how during the last four hours she had been face to face with the danger of losing him for ever. A frenzy of sickening anxiety overwhelmed her. She ran about the flat, reeled, battered herself against the walls, rushed to the window and cried out his name. She must go to him, go to him at once. It was the only thought she was able to grasp. She would get the front door opened somehow, wake him out of his sleep, force her way into his room, stay with him to-night and always, no matter what the consequences might be.... She did not care. Only to be quit of this dread, which consumed her like a furnace.
The thunderstorm had raged itself out, but rain was still falling steadily. She scarcely gave herself time to fling on a cloak. In her house-shoes, without hat or umbrella, she flew along the streets, splashing through the mud and puddles, followed by foul epithets from homeless night-waifs in dark doorways. She arrived breathless and panting at his lodgings.
Light glimmered in the two windows on the third floor. She clapped her hands and called out "Konni! Konni!" repeating his name several times. But he had closed the windows and did not hear her.
As she stared up at his window, she saw the shadow of his tall figure on the blind glide up and down, from one end of the room to the other--up and down, up and down. And all the time the rain was descending on her in torrents, and the chill dampness of the street creeping up her limbs.