She looked at Guy's work-table: the books were there, neatly arranged on the big atlases. She got up and trembled so violently that she felt herself sinking away, into an abyss. She rang the bell. The door was open. She heard the maid on the stairs:
"Truitje!"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Truitje, I'm here . . . in Mr. Addie's study."
"What is it, ma'am?"
"Call your master . . . at once."
"But how pale you look, ma'am! What is it, ma'am?"
"Nothing, Truitje. Call the master at once."
"Aren't you well?"
"Yes, yes, only call the master."
The maid went away in dismay; the stairs creaked under her hurried tread. . . . Constance had sunk back into the chair again and sat waiting. Downstairs the piano sounded, under Paul's fingers, and she followed the tune, Siegmund's Love-song:
"He plays well, he plays well," she thought.
She was half-fainting; the white squares still surrounded her, because of the three letters, there, on the table.
She now heard a footstep on the stairs; she followed the creaking as it came nearer. It was her husband, at last.
"What's the matter, Constance?"
Her throat would not allow a word to pass; she merely pointed to the table.
"Well, what is it? Letters? For Addie?"
She continued to point. He looked, recognized Guy's hand. He glanced at her; she said nothing. He now opened the letter to "Uncle Henri and Aunt Constance":
"Has the boy gone mad?"
