The thought floated across her mind impersonally. It brought no shock, because it did not present itself as a temptation, even the faintest; it was just as if she had been recognising what somebody in a tale might do. Without purpose, without questioning why the thought fascinated her, she sat seeing how easily she could steal the money. The ticket was on the table; there was nothing to show that she hadn't any right to it--she had merely to claim the prize. There would be a fort-night's delay, at least, before she got it. Well, she could eke out the sum that was put by for her fare. She imagined her sensations on the morning that she walked from the bank with notes for twelve thousand francs in her pocket. If her pocket were picked! Yielding even more intently to the thought, she perceived that the proper course would be to open an account before she left.... It wouldn't be twelve thousand francs--a substantial sum would be deducted for _les droits des pauvres._ But it would be enough--the price of power! The thought leapt further. She saw herself, gorgeously gowned, on a platform--heard the very piece that she was playing, the plaudits that came thundering; she trembled in the emotion of a visionary fame. Recalling her, there sounded, in the dark emptiness again, the minor jangle of a cab-horse bell. Then she understood. It had been no idle supposition, the thought that mastered her. "_O divine Vierge Marie_!" she wailed on her knees, and knew that she wanted to be a thief. Through the night, through the morrow, through every waking moment, a voice was saying to her: "You _won't_ be robbing a child; you can do for it all that She did--every month, just the same thing. Long before the child is old enough to need so large a sum you will be in a position to give it to him. What will he have lost? Nothing. You are terrified by the semblance of a sin; it is not a sin really. Dare it, dare it, be bold!" Nothing could quell the voice. It was whispering while she prayed. And the crashing of orchestras could not drown it, when she fled to music for relief. She learnt that the woman in Amiens was called Gaillard, and had a shop in the rue Puteaux. But now she shrank from writing to her--she didn't know how she meant to act. Once, in desperation, she did begin a letter, an avowal of the prize that had been drawn; but she hesitated again. There was an evening when, with steps that wavered, like a woman enfeebled by illness, she packed her things to return to Chauville.... She sat wide-eyed, staring at the trunk.