At last she takes up the last bird of the dozen, a marvellously lovely little bird whose wings seem to have been dipped in sea-water, all green as they are with a tinge of sapphire.

Carefully, daintily, Desiree suspends it on a piece of brass wire, in the charming attitude of a frightened creature about to fly away.

Ah! how true it is that the little blue bird is about to fly away!  What a desperate flight into space!  How certain one feels that this time it is the great journey, the everlasting journey from which there is no return!

By and by, very softly, Desiree opens the wardrobe and takes a thin shawl which she throws over her shoulders; then she goes.  What?  Not a glance at her mother, not a silent farewell, not a tear?  No, nothing!  With the terrible clearness of vision of those who are about to die, she suddenly realizes that her childhood and youth have been sacrificed to a vast self-love.  She feels very sure that a word from their great man will comfort that sleeping mother, with whom she is almost angry for not waking, for allowing her to go without a quiver of her closed eyelids.

When one dies young, even by one’s own act, it is never without a rebellious feeling, and poor Desiree bids adieu to life, indignant with destiny.

Now she is in the street.  Where is she going?  Everything seems deserted already.  Desiree walks rapidly, wrapped in her little shawl, head erect, dry-eyed.  Not knowing the way, she walks straight ahead.

The dark, narrow streets of the Marais, where gas-jets twinkle at long intervals, cross and recross and wind about, and again and again in her feverish course she goes over the same ground.  There is always something between her and the river.  And to think that, at that very hour, almost in the same quarter, some one else is wandering through the streets, waiting, watching, desperate!  Ah! if they could but meet.  Suppose she should accost that feverish watcher, should ask him to direct her: 

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur.  How can I get to the Seine?”

He would recognize her at once.

“What!  Can it be you, Mam’zelle Zizi?  What are you doing out-of-doors at this time of night?”

“I am going to die, Frantz.  You have taken away all my pleasure in living.”

Thereupon he, deeply moved, would seize her, press her to his heart and carry her away in his arms, saying: 

“Oh! no, do not die.  I need you to comfort me, to cure all the wounds the other has inflicted on me.”

But that is a mere poet’s dream, one of the meetings that life can not bring about.

Streets, more streets, then a square and a bridge whose lanterns make another luminous bridge in the black water.  Here is the river at last.  The mist of that damp, soft autumn evening causes all of this huge Paris, entirely strange to her as it is, to appear to her like an enormous confused mass, which her ignorance of the landmarks magnifies still more.  This is the place where she must die.