She, a young woman, was standing amidst scattered wilted flowers, with parted lips and wide horrified eyes. It seemed a land far off, some land under the burning sun.
She cried out, a cry of anguish. She was there to hide from herself and tortured by the memory of what she once had been.
I saw her again, this time on the sea, still trying to escape from herself, from the tyranny of her lost innocence.
And then I saw her in a rapid succession of scenes, again and again—gambling places, drinking,—sometimes listless and distraught—sometimes forced and eager—with wonderful, costly jewels. But they were too heavy. The price of them was weighing upon her soul.
Then a grave, alone under leaden skies of some Northern country. No flowers now, only the moaning wind—the cold rain.
I lifted the child in my arms and kissed her.
INCALCULABLE
It was one of those gray days so frequent in Paris in the late fall. A drizzling rain was coming down through the bare branches of the trees and a cold mist was rising from the Seine.