“I can’t do that, Emilie. Keep calm, Emilie, be sensible. Go to my bedroom, if you like....”
Emilie fled. It was a renewed flight, the fluttering of a young bird, a frail butterfly, hither and thither. Her eyes seemed to be seeking, vaguely and anxiously.... She and Louise had to go down to the next landing and Emilie managed to escape to Marianne’s room, once the boudoir which they had shared between them:
“My own little room!” she sobbed, throwing herself into a chair.
The gas was half-lowered. Everywhere lay things of Marianne’s; the dressing-table was in disorder, as though Marianne had had to dress quickly and hurriedly for the dinner-party.
“How nice she looked!” sobbed Emilie. “My little sister, my dear little sister! O God, they say she’s in love with Uncle Henri!”
She sprang up again in nervous restlessness, turned the gas on, looked round, anxiously, feeling lost, even in this room:
“His portrait!” she cried. “Uncle Henri’s portrait!”
She saw Van der Welcke’s photograph. True, it was between Constance’ and Addie’s; but there was another on Marianne’s writing-table.
“My little sister, my poor little sister!” sobbed Emilie.
And she dropped limply into another chair, on the top of a corset and petticoats of Marianne’s. She lay like that, with drooping arms, among her sister’s things. Suddenly she sat up. She heard voices outside, in the passage: Louise with Eduard, her husband.