It was stiflingly hot. Renée's windows were left open all the evening,
and the lamp was not lighted, for fear of attracting the moths, which
made her so nervous. They were talking, until as the daylight gradually
faded, their words and thoughts were influenced by the solemnity of the
long hours of dreamy reverie, without light.
They all three soon ceased speaking at all, and remained there mute,
breathing in the air and giving themselves up to the evening calm. M.
Mauperin was holding Renée's hand in his, and every now and then he
pressed it fondly.
The gloom was gathering fast, and gradually the whole room grew quite
dark. Lying full length on the sofa, Renée herself disappeared in the
indistinct whiteness of her dressing-gown. Presently nothing at all
could be seen, and the room itself seemed all one with the sky.
Renée began to talk then in a low, penetrating voice. She spoke gently
and very beautifully; her words were tender, solemn, and touching,
sometimes sounding like the chant of a pure conscience, and sometimes
falling on the hearts around her with angelic consolation.
Her ideas became more and more elevated, excusing and pardoning all
things. At times the things she said fell on the ear as from a voice
that was far away from earth, higher than this life, and gradually a
sort of sacred awe born of the solemnity of darkness, silence, night,
and death, fell on the room where M. and Mme. Mauperin, and Denoisel
were listening eagerly to all which seemed to be already fluttering away
from the dying girl in this voice.