She had an intense awareness of her own life, the warmth of her thin body concentrated into a minuscule "I." She felt the tickling of a drop that crept under the earflap of her shapka, and the beating of her heart, and next to her heart – the fragile presence of the vials she had just bought. "It's me," a muffled voice suddenly rang out inside her, "I, who am here in these snow squalls at the end of the world, in this Siberia, I, Charlotte Lemonnier; I, who have nothing in common with this ' barbarous place, not with this sky, nor with this frozen earth. Nor with these people. Here I am, all alone, taking morphine to my mother…" It seemed as if her mind were reeling before tipping over into an abyss, where all this absurdity, suddenly perceived, would become natural. She shook herself. No, this Siberian desert must end somewhere, and at that place there was a city, with broad avenues lined with chestnut trees, lighted cafés, her uncle's apartment, and all those books that began with such dear words utterly beloved simply for the way their letters looked. There was France…

The city with chestnut-lined avenues was transformed into a fine spangle of gold that glittered in her eyes, but nobody noticed. Charlotte could even glimpse its brilliance in the reflection of a beautiful brooch on the dress of a young lady with a capricious and haughty smile: she was sitting in a fine armchair in the middle of a large room with elegant furniture and silk cushions at the windows. "La raison du plus fort est toujours meilleure," recited the young woman in a pinched voice.

"…est toujours la meilleure," Charlotte corrected discreetly and, with lowered eyes, added, "It would be more correct to pronounce it 'meilleure' and not 'meillaire.' 'Meill-eu-eure.' "

She rounded her lips and made the sound last until it was lost in a velvety "r." The young orator, with a sullen expression, resumed her declamation.