“Everything here belongs to M. Jenkins.  Let him dispose of it as he likes.  I want nothing from him.  Don’t insist; it is useless.”

The man did not insist.  His mission fulfilled, the rest mattered little to him.

Steadily, coldly, she arranged her hat carefully before the glass, the maid fastening her veil, and arranging on her shoulders the folds of her mantle, then she looked round her and considered for a moment whether she was forgetting anything precious to her.  No, nothing—­her son’s letters were in her pocket, she never allowed them to be away from her.

“Madame does not wish for the carriage?”

“No.”  And she left the house.

It was about five o’clock.  At that moment Bernard Jansoulet was crossing the doorway of the legislative chamber, his mother on his arm; but poignant as was the drama enacted there, this one surpassed it—­more sudden, unforeseen, and without any stage effects.  A drama between four walls, improvised in Paris day by day.  Perhaps it is this which gives that vibration to the air of the city, that tremor which forces the nerves into activity.  The weather was magnificent.  The streets of the wealthy quarter, large and straight as avenues, shone in the declining light, embellished with open windows, flowery balconies, and patches of green seen on the boulevards, light and soft among the narrow, hard prospects of stone.  Mme. Jenkins hurried in this direction, walking aimlessly, in a dull stupor.  What a horrible crash!  Five minutes ago rich, surrounded by all the respect and comfort of easy circumstances.  Now—­nothing.  Not even a roof to sleep under, not even a name.  The street!

Where was she to go?  What would become of her?

At first she had thought of her son.  But, to acknowledge her fault, to blush before her own child, to weep while taking from him the right to console her, was more than she could do.  No, there was nothing for her but death.  To die as soon as possible, to escape shame by a complete disappearance, to unravel in this way an inextricable situation.  But where to die!  How?  There are so many ways of departure!  And she called them all up mentally while she walked.  Life flowed around her, its luxury at this time of the year in full flower, round the Madeleine and its market, in a space marked off by the perfume of carnations and roses.  On the wide footpath were well-dressed women whose skirts mingled their rustle with the trembling of the young leaves; there was some of the pleasure here of a meeting in a drawing-room, an air of acquaintance among the passers-by, of smiles and discreet greetings in passing.  And all at once Mme. Jenkins, anxious lest her features might betray her, fearing what might be thought if any one saw her rushing on so blindly, slackened her pace to the aimless gait of an afternoon walk, stopping here and there.  The light materials of the dresses spoke of summer, of the country; a thin skirt for the sandy paths of the parks, gauze-trimmed hats for the seaside, fans, sunshades.  Her fixed eyes fastened on these trifles without seeing them; but in a vague and pale reflection in the clear windows she saw her image, lying motionless on the bed of some hotel, the leaden sleep of a poison in her head; or, down there, beyond the walls, among the slime of some sunken boat.  Which of the two was better?