He stopped dead. He closed it softly: he opened it once more: he closed it again. Was it not closed just now? Yes. He was sure it was. Who had opened it?... His heart beat so that he choked. He leaned over his bed, and sat down to breathe again. He was overwhelmed by his passion. It robbed him of the power to see or hear or move: his whole body shook. He was in terror of this unknown joy for which for months he had been craving, which was with him now, near him, so that nothing could keep it from him. Suddenly the violent boy filled with love was afraid of these desires newly realized and revolted from them. He was ashamed of them, ashamed of what he wished to do. He was too much in love to dare to enjoy what he loved: he was afraid: he would have done anything to escape his happiness. Is it only possible to love, to love, at the cost of the profanation of the beloved?... He went to the door again: and trembling with love and fear, with his hand on the latch he could not bring himself to open it. And on the other side of the door, standing barefooted on the tiled floor, shivering with cold, was Sabine. So they stayed ... for how long? Minutes? Hours?... They did not know that they were there: and yet they did know. They held out their arms to each other,--he was overwhelmed by a love so great that he had not the courage to enter,--she called to him, waited for him, trembled lest he should enter.... And when at last he made up his mind to enter, she had just made up her mind to turn the lock again. Then he cursed himself for a fool. He leaned against the door with all his strength. With his lips to the lock he implored her: "Open." He called to Sabine in a whisper: she could hear his heated breathing. She stayed motionless near the door: she was frozen: her teeth were chattering: she had no strength either to open the door or to go to bed again.... The storm made the trees crack and the doors in the house bang.... They turned away and went to their beds, worn out, sad and sick at heart. The cocks crowed huskily. The first light of dawn crept through the wet windows, a wretched, pale dawn, drowned in the persistent rain.... Christophe got up as soon as he could: he went down to the kitchen and talked to the people there. He was in a hurry to be gone and was afraid of being left alone with Sabine again. He was almost relieved when the miller's wife said that Sabine was unwell, and had caught cold during the drive and would not be going that morning. His journey home was melancholy. He refused to drive, and walked through the soaking fields, in the yellow mist that covered the earth, the trees, the houses, with a shroud. Like the light, life seemed to be blotted out. Everything loomed like a specter. He was like a specter himself. * * * * *