Poor girl! She rushed into the room without knocking, pale as a corpse,
her eyes starting from her head. She clung to me like a child that has
just awakened from a bad dream.

What is the matter with us? We are both terrified. The fog seems to have
affected our wits.

I have lit every lamp and candle, and they flicker fitfully, like
Jeanne's eyes.

The fog is getting more and more dense. Jeanne is sitting on the sofa,
her hand pressed to her heart, and I seem to hear it beating, even from
here.

I feel as though some one were dying near me--here in the room.

Joergen, is it you? Answer me, is it you?

Ah! I must have gone mad.... I am not superstitious, only depressed.

All the doors are locked and the shutters barred. There is not a sound.
I cannot hear anything moving outside.

It is just this dead silence that frightens us.... Yes, that is what it
is....

* * * * *

Now Jeanne is asleep. I can hardly see her through the fog.