The fog is getting more and more dense. Jeanne is sitting on the sofa, her hand pressed to her heart, and I seem to hear it beating, even from here.
I feel as though some one were dying near me—here in the room.
Joergen, is it you? Answer me, is it you?
Ah! I must have gone mad.... I am not superstitious, only depressed.
All the doors are locked and the shutters barred. There is not a sound. I cannot hear anything moving outside.
It is just this dead silence that frightens us.... Yes, that is what it is....
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
Now Jeanne is asleep. I can hardly see her through the fog.
She sits there like a shadow, an apparition, and the fog floats over her red hair like smoke over a fire.
I know nothing whatever about her. She is as reserved about her own concerns as I am about mine. Yet I feel as though during this hour of intense fear and agitation I had seen into the depths of her soul. I understand her, because we are both women. She suffers from the eternal unrest of the blood.