Again
she held out her hand to the fire, but suddenly she gave a little cry and
put her hand to her head. There was Ba'tiste!
What was Ba'tiste to her? Nothing-nothing at all. She had saved his
life--even if she wronged Ba'tiste, her debt would be paid. No, she would
not think of Ba'tiste. Yet she did not put the paper in the fire, but in
the pocket of her dress. Then she went to her room, leaving the door
open. The bed was opposite the fire, and, as she lay there--she did not
take off her clothes, she knew not why-she could see the flames. She
closed her eyes, but could not sleep, and more than once when she opened
them she thought she saw Ba'tiste sitting there as he had sat hours
before. Why did Ba'tiste haunt her so? What was it he had said in his
broken English as he went away?--that he would come back; that she was
"beautibul."
All at once as she lay still, her head throbbing, her feet and hands icy
cold, she sat up listening. "Ah-again!" she cried. She sprang from her
bed, rushed to the door, and strained her eyes into the silver night. She
called into the icy void, "Qui va la? Who goes?"
She leaned forwards, her hand at her ear, but no sound came in reply.
Once more she called, but nothing answered.
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