Outside, he found the two men withdrawn. He made his way into the street, a strange numbness in his brain. It was like exaltation--the mere mad ecstasy of self-obliteration. For the time it seemed to carry him forward--a spirit disembodied, shorn of every instinct but that of flight. The wind thrust at, the dust choked, the jumping lamps mocked him. He paid no heed to a malice that was powerless any longer to influence his movements. Pressing forward aimlessly, he came out on the Pont Neuf. Few passengers were now abroad; and these, butting with a sense of personal grievance against the blast, took no notice of the significant attitude of one who, upon such a night, could stop to dwell upon the river. But presently a single pedestrian--a woman--going by, uttered a stifled exclamation, checked herself, slunk into the angle of a buttress, and stood watching him. He was gazing upon the black swing of water below. Suddenly he rose, returned a few paces the way he had come, and went down into the gloom of the quay where it stooped under the bridge’s shadow. The woman followed stealthily. The wind had long ago taken his hat. He unbuttoned and flung open his coat. She came swiftly to him and seized him by the arm. He turned upon her--dragged himself free with a start of repulsion. His face underwent a change--flashing into an expression of mad fury. “Again!” he shrieked. “Why do you pursue and haunt me! I think you are my genius for all devilry!” For a moment it looked as if he would strike her--her, Théroigne. She stood, where he had thrust her, without the shadow thrown by the bridge, a dim glow falling upon her face from a far lamp above. Even in this tumult of his rage he was conscious of an inexplicable new meaning in her eyes. They were like caves of darkness alive with a suggestive inner movement. “I called to find you,” she said stilly, without emotion. “The _citoyen propriétaire_ told me you were abroad--probably at the theatre. I followed on the chance; and destiny, it seems, was my guide.” “Why did you call? Why did you follow?--we have nothing of a common interest. I loathe you--do you hear! I curse the day on which you came into my life!” She never moved. “Is it not our common interest,” she said, “to wish to die?” He gasped, and stood staring at her. “Ah!” she went on; “but I had heard, and wondered for the result. They were betrothed no further back than yesterday; they are to be man and wife in a few weeks. He is an impatient lover--this handsome chasseur. In a few weeks she will lie in his arms--the pretty, loving babouine.” He lifted his hand again with a furious gesture; and at that she cast back the hooded cloak which she had held clutched about her face and breast, and, coming swiftly to him, dared him with her brilliant eyes.