Jeanne contemplated it lying quiet within her.

In that figure sitting motionless on the bed, in the darkness, two souls were confronting each other in silence.

A humble Jeanne, passionate, sure of being able to sacrifice all to love, was measuring her strength against a Jeanne unconsciously haughty, and sure of possessing a hard and cold truth.

The rumbling of the carriages was dying out in the street; the steps and the rustlings were less frequent in the corridor.

Suddenly the two Jeannes seemed to mingle once more and become one, who thought: "When they announce his death to me, I shall be able to say to myself: At least, you did that!" She rose, turned on the light, seated herself at the writing-table, chose a sheet of paper, and wrote: "To Piero Maironi, the night of October 29,---- "I believe.
"JEANNE DESSALLE." When she had written, she gazed a long, long time at the solemn words.
The longer she gazed, the farther the two Jeannes seemed to draw apart.
The unconsciously proud Jeanne overpowered and crushed the other almost without a struggle.