It is the middle of the night, somewhere about two in the morning. Our
night-lamps are burning still, a little dimly, in front of our
peaceful idols. Chrysanthème wakes me suddenly, and I turn to look at
her: she has raised herself on one arm, and her face expresses the
most intense terror; she makes me a sign, without daring to speak,
that someone is near, or something, creeping up to us. What ill-timed
visit is this? A feeling of fear gains possession of me also. I have a
rapid impression of some immense unknown danger, in this isolated
spot, in this strange country of which I do not even yet comprehend
the inhabitants and the mysteries. It must be something very
frightful, to hold her there, rooted to the spot, half dead with
fright, she who _does_ comprehend all these things.
It would seem to be outside: it is coming from the garden; with
trembling hand she indicates to me that it will come through the
verandah, over Madame Prune's roof. Certainly, I can hear faint
noises, and they do approach nearer.