"A fine melodrama!" sneered Sobrenski. "Keep all that for the stage,
it isn't needed here. _Allons_! We can't waste any more time, there
has been too much wasted already."
Vardri walked to the furthest end of the room, turning his back upon
the group at the window, and thrust his fingers into his ears to deaden
the sound of the scream for which he waited in tortured anticipation.
Excitable and neurotic, like all consumptives, his imagination made of
those waiting moments a veritable hell.
She would never get down in safety--an old and hastily knotted rope, a
disregard of all ordinary precautions, and her body in the hands of men
who handled human lives more carelessly than most people would handle
stones. He bit his lip till the blood ran down to his chin.
Here he stood doing nothing, he who would have been tortured to save
her!
The window was shut and one of the men said: "She's down all right
after all. I thought by the look of her she would have fainted. She
has some pluck, Mademoiselle Fatalite!"
"Yes," answered Sobrenski.
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