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I wanted this to stop.

"Because he's young," I said, "and he has life before him. He's not on the brink of death. " Now I was more than uneasy. I was miserable. "In time, he'll forget about us. . . " I wanted to say "about our conversation. "

"He could die tomorrow," she said. "A carriage could crush him in the streets. . . "

"Do you want me to do it!" I glared at her.

"No, I don't want you to do it. But who am I to tell you what to do? I am trying to understand you. "

Her long heavy hair had slipped over her shoulders again, and exasperated, she took hold of it in both hands.

Then suddenly she made a low hissing sound, and her body went rigid. She was holding her long tresses and staring at them.

"My God," she whispered. And then in a spasm, she let go of her hair and screamed.

The sound paralyzed me. It sent a flash of white pain through my head. I had never heard her scream. And she screamed again as if she were on fire. She had fallen back against the window and she was screaming louder as she looked at her hair. She went to touch it and then pulled her fingers back from it as if it were blazing. And she struggled against the window, screaming and twisting from side to side, as if she were trying to get away from her own hair.

"Stop it!" I shouted. I grabbed hold of her shoulders and shook her. She was gasping. I realized instantly what it was. Her hair had grown back! It had grown back as she slept until it was as long as it had been before. And it was thicker even, more lustrous. That is what was wrong with the way she looked, what I had noticed and not noticed! And what she herself had just seen.

"Stop it, stop it now!" I shouted louder, her body shaking so violently I could hardly keep her in my arms. "It's grown back, that's all!" I insisted. "It's natural to you, don't you see? It's nothing!"

She was choking, trying to calm herself, touching it and then screaming as if her fingertips were blistered. She tried to get away from me, and then ripped at her hair in pure terror.

I shook her hard this time.

"Gabrielle!" I said. "Do you understand me? It's grown back, and it will every time you cut it! There's no horror in it, for the love of hell, stop!" I thought if she didn't stop, I'd start to rave myself. I was trembling as badly as she was.

She stopped screaming and she was giving little gasps. I'd never seen her like this, not in all the years and years in Auvergne. She let me guide her towards the bench by the hearth, where I made her sit down. She put her hands to her temples and tried to catch her breath, her body rocking back and forth slowly.

I looked about for a scissor. I had none. The little gold scissor had fallen on the floor of the crypt below. I took out my knife.

She was sobbing softly in her hands.

"Do you want me to cut it off again?" I asked.

She didn't answer.

"Gabrielle, listen to me. " I took her hands from her face, "I'll cut it again if you like. Each night, cut it, and burn it. That's all. "

She stared at me in such perfect stillness suddenly that I didn't know what to do. Her face was smeared with blood from her tears, and there was blood on her linen. Blood all over her linen.

"Shall I cut it?" I asked her again.

She looked exactly as if someone had hit her and made her bleed. Her eyes were wide and wondering, the blood tears seeping out of them down her smooth cheeks. And as I watched, the flow stopped and the tears darkened and dried to a crust on her white skin.

I wiped her face carefully with my lace handkerchief. I went to the clothing I kept in the tower, the garments made for me in Paris that I'd brought back and kept here now.

I took off her coat. She made no move to help me or stop me and I unhooked the linen shirt that she wore.

I saw her breasts and they were perfectly white except for the palest pink tint to the small nipples. Trying not to look at them, I put the fresh shirt on her and buttoned it quickly. Then I brushed her hair, brushed it and brushed it, and not wanting to hack at it with the knife, I braided it for her in one long plait, and I put her coat back on her.

I could feel her composure and her strength coming back. She didn't seem ashamed of what had happened. And I didn't want her to be. She was merely considering things. But she didn't speak. She didn't move.

I started talking to her.

"When I was little, you used to tell me about all the places you'd been. You showed me pictures of Naples and Venice, remember? Those old books? And you had things, little keepsakes from London and St. Petersburg, all the places you'd seen. "

She didn't answer.