As the summer days came on, she would see him disappear through the
green door of the wood at morning and return by it at evening; but all
the day each had been alone, Beatrice alone with a solitude in which was
now no longer any Wonder. The summer beauty gave her courage, but she
knew that the end could not be very far away.

One day there had been that in Antony's manner which had more than
usually alarmed her, and when night fell and he had not returned, she
went up the wood in search of him, her heart full of forebodings. As she
neared the châlet she seemed to hear voices. No! there was only one
voice. Antony was talking to some one. Careful to make no noise, she
stole up to the window and looked in. The sight that met her eyes filled
her with a great dread. "O God, he is going mad," she cried to herself.

Antony was sitting in a big chair drawn up to the fire. Opposite to him,
lying back in her cushions, was the Image draped in a large black velvet
cloak. A table stood between them, and on it stood two glasses, and a
decanter nearly empty of wine, Silencieux's glass stood untasted, but
Antony had evidently been drinking deeply, for his cheeks were flushed
and his eyes wild.

He was speaking in angry, passionate, despairing tones. One of her
strange moods of silence had come upon Silencieux, and she lay back in
her pillows stonily unresponsive.

"For God's sake speak to me," Antony cried. "I love you with my whole
heart. I have sacrificed all I love for your sake. I would die for you
this instant--yes! a hundred thousand deaths. But you will not answer me
one little word--"