She became conscious, none the less. And she saw that the enemy was no longer there. Her despair had vanished. . . . Vanished? No, it was still there, but it was no longer in her. She saw it outside. She heard its rustle. . . . Magic. . . . A terrible music disclosing unknown spaces. . . . Paralyzed, Annette heard, as if some invisible hand were conjuring it up in the room, the sound of sobbing, the Fatum of a Chopin prelude. Her heart was flooded with a joy she had never before experienced. It had nothing but the name in common with the poor joy of everyday life which is afraid of pain, which only exists because it denies pain, denies that immense joy which is also pain. . . . Annette listened with closed eyes. The voice stopped. There was an expectant silence. And suddenly from the torn soul a wild cry of deliverance flew upward as if on wings. As a diamond leaves its track on a piece of glass, it streaked across the vault of the night. In her exhaustion, as she lay on her hard pillow, Annette, on the threshold of this night of sorrow, gave birth to a new soul. . . . The silent cry whirled far away and disappeared in the abyss of thought. Annette remained silent and motionless. A long time. . . . At last she rose, her neck aching, her limbs stiff. But her soul was delivered. An irresistible force pushed her towards the table. She did not know what she was going to do. Her heart was in her throat. She could not keep it all to herself. She took up her pen and, in a whirlwind of passion, without metre, in a rough and jerky rhythm, in a single torrent, she poured out the flood of pain. . . . You have come, your hand holds me,--I kiss your hand. In love, in fear,--I kiss your hand. Love, you have come to destroy me. I know it well. My knees tremble. Come, destroy!--I kiss your hand. You eat the fruit and fling it away: bite my heart, it is yours! Blest be the wound your teeth make!--I kiss your hand. You want me--all; but, possessing all, you will possess nothing. You leave nothing but ruins.--I kiss your hand. To-morrow your hand, caressing me, will kill me. Even as I kiss it, I await the mortal stroke of your hand. Kill me! Strike! In doing me evil, you will do me good. You deliver me, destroyer.--I kiss your hand. Every blow that makes me bleed breaks a bond. You tear away the chains with the flesh.--I kiss your hand. You break the prison of my body, murderer, And through the breach my life escapes.--I kiss your hand. I am the broken soil from which rises the grain Of the sorrow that you sowed.--I kiss your hand. Sow the sacred sorrow! May all the sorrow of the world Come to ripeness in my breast.--I kiss your hand, I kiss your hand. . . . Tempest, sea-waves crashing against the rocks, a soul laden with spray, flashing with lightning, a surf foaming with passions and tears dashed up towards the sky. . . .