air. He collected all his strength so as to come in as cavalierly as possible. She rose and came to meet him: “I was expecting you.” He sat down next to her, very nearly on top of her, since he saw her as being a great distance away. He laid his hand on her shoulder, forcibly holding himself straight, swaying a little and biting his lips; he thought that he was talking. She also said something, but he could not understand her; everything was taking place as if under water. Then came the sound of the horns of the departing cars.
The Princess made a sudden movement, as if her legs had failed her. Prokop saw before him a white, vague face, in which were two dark cavities. “This is the end,” he heard close and clear, “the end. Darling, I’ve sent him away!” Had he been in full possession of his senses he would have seen her as if carved out of ivory, frozen, beautiful in her pain at the highest moment of her sacrifice; but he only blinked, trying to master the trembling of his eyelids, and it seemed to him that the floor was rising beneath his feet and tilting over. The Princess pressed her hands to her forehead and staggered; he wanted to take her into his arms, to carry her, to support her in her exhaustion after her great deed, but instead he fell without a sound at her feet, collapsing as if he was nothing but a heap of rags.
He did not lose consciousness; his eyes wandered about; he tried to understand where he was and what was happening to him. He had the idea that some one, trembling with fear, was raising him up; he wanted to help himself, but could do nothing. “It’s only . . . entropy,” he said, and it seemed to
