to such vague thoughts. The transparent darkness reminds us of dark-hued jewels. There are scintillations in the air, as though the perfumes with which it is saturated have become too vehement and have suddenly taken fire. The intermittent flashes of phosphorescence from the glow-worms harmonise with the chirp-chirp of the crickets.
All at once, while it seems to the belated young girl that the crickets accentuate their irritating music, Blandine is hustled, clasped, and overturned on to a hillock by a human figure, which runs out from behind a broombush. The assailant pulls up her petticoats, forages between her soft, adolescent limbs, handles and strokes her flesh, sighing and panting meanwhile, energetically but not brutally, and finishes by taking entire possession of her.
"Ariaan!" The name, which she would have cried out on recognising the King of the Winnowers, remains stuck in her throat, checked by fright. She experiences a brief pain, like a rending of her belly, and this is followed almost immediately by a strange happiness. Was her being doubled? Endowed with a new sympathy, she was
