At certain times terror had suggested most desperate expedients to her. She had thought of denouncing herself, of appearing before the French authorities, telling them her story and acquainting them with the secrets which she possessed. But her past filled her with terror, so many were the evils which she had brought against this country. Perhaps they might pardon her life, taking into account her voluntary action in giving herself up. But the prison, the seclusion with shaved head, dressed in some coarse serge frock, condemned to silence, perhaps suffering hunger and cold, filled her with invincible repulsion…. No, death before that!
And so she was continuing her life as a spy, shutting her eyes to the future, living only in the present, trying to keep from thinking, considering herself happy if she could see before her even a few days of security.
The meeting with Ferragut in the street of Marseilles had revived her drooping spirits, arousing new hope.
"Get me out of here; keep me with you. On your ship I could live as forgotten by the world as though I were dead…. And if my presence annoys you, take me far away from France, leave me in some distant country!"
She was anxious to evade isolation in the enemy's territory, obliged to obey her superiors like a caged beast who has to take jabs through the iron grating. Presentiment of her approaching death was making her tremble.
"I do not want to die, Ulysses!… I am not old enough yet to die. I adore my physical charm. I am my own best lover and I am terrified at the thought that I might be shot."
A phosphorescent light gleamed from her eyes and her teeth struck together with a chattering of terror.
"I do not want to die!" she repeated. "There are moments in which I suspect that they are following me and closing me in…. Perhaps they have recognized me and at this moment are waiting to surprise me in the very act…. Do help me; get me away from here; my death is certain. I have done so much harm!…"
She was silent a moment, as though calculating all the crimes of her former life.
"The doctor," she continued, "depends upon her consuming patriotic enthusiasm as the impetus to her work. I lack her faith. I am not a German woman, and being a spy is very repugnant to me…. I feel ashamed when I think of my actual life; every night I think over the result of my abominable work; I calculate the use to which they will put my warnings and my information; I can see the torpedoed boats…. I wonder how many human beings have perished through my fault!… I have visions; my conscience torments me. Save me!… I can do no more. I feel a horrible fear. I have so much to expiate!…"