But already the pen was at work, the brain pouring as from a pitcher.
Writing was blood-letting, and the interminable pages drained him of his fever.

As he wrote, she grew more radiant, more indistinct, more fiercely desired.

The concentration of his active mind directed his whole being on the track of Clotilde, idealizing her beyond human.

That last day when he had seen her appeared to him as the day of days.

That day was Clotilde herself, she in person; he saw it as the woman, and saw himself translucent in the great luminousness; and behind it all was dark, as in front.