"The abbot is fond of jesting. He says so comically: 'My adopted
daughter,' and then he strikes himself with his fist and shouts:
'She's my real daughter, not my adopted daughter. She's my real
daughter.'"

"I have never known my mother, but this laughter would have been
unpleasant to her. I feel it," says Mariet.

The women grow silent. The breakers strike against the shore dully
with the regularity of a great pendulum. The unknown city, wrapped
with fire and smoke, is still being destroyed in the sky; yet it does
not fall down completely; and the sea is waiting. Mariet lifts her
lowered head.

"What were you going to say, Mariet?"

"Didn't he pass here?" asks Mariet in a low voice.

Another woman answers timidly:

"Hush! Why do you speak of him? I fear him. No, he did not pass
this way."

"He did. I saw from the window that he passed by."

"You are mistaken; it was some one else."

"Who else could that be? Is it possible to make a mistake, if you
have once seen him walk? No one walks as he does."