Her eyes too had been drained of color; they were grey, but luminous, beneath the black lashes.

“What?” Her murmured words had seemed like a caress even before I understood their meaning. “No. Ah, yes!” I said, at last.

I put my hand on her shoulder; I had pins and needles in my fingers.

“Did you have a bad dream?” she asked.

I drew her to me with my other hand.

“A dream? Yes, I was dreaming. And you, didn’t you sleep?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m sleepy. But that mustn’t stop you from sleeping… Why are you looking at me like that?”

I closed my eyes. Her heart was beating against mine. Her heart? A mere appendage, I told myself. But nothing surprised me any longer, not even my own indifference. I had crossed the frontiers of fear and despair. I had come a long way — further than anyone had ever come before.

I raised myself on my elbow. Daybreak… and the peace that comes with dawn? A silent storm had set the cloudless horizon ablaze. A streak of light, the first ray of the blue sun, penetrated the room and broke up into sharp-edged reflections; there was a crossfire of sparks, which coruscated off the mirror, the door handles, the nickel pipes. The light scattered, falling on to every smooth surface as though it wanted to conquer ever more space, to set the room alight. I looked at Rheya; the pupils of her grey eyes had contracted.

She asked in an expressionless voice, “Is the night over already?”

“Night never lasts long here.”

“And us?”

“What about us?”

“Are we going to stay here long?”

Coming from her, the question had its comic side; but when I spoke, my voice held no trace of gaiety.

“Quite a long time, probably. Why, don’t you want to stay here?”

Her eyes did not blink. She was looking at me inquiringly. Did I see her blink? I was not sure. She drew back the blanket and I saw the little pink scar on her arm.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re very beautiful.”

She smiled, without a trace of mischief, modestly acknowledging my compliment.

“Really? It’s as though… as though…”

“What?”

“As though you were doubtful of something.”

“What nonsense!”

“As though you didn’t trust me and I were hiding something from you…”

“Rubbish!”

“By the way you’re denying it, I can tell I’m right.”

The light became blinding. Shading my eyes with my hand, I looked for my dark glasses. They were on the table. When I was back by her side, Rheya smiled.

“What about me?”

It took me a minute to understand what she meant

“Dark glasses?”

I got up and began to hunt through drawers and shelves, pushing aside books and instruments. I found two pairs of glasses, which I gave to Rheya. They were too big; they fell half way down her nose.

The shutters slid over the window; it was dark once more. Groping, I helped Rheya remove her glasses and put both pairs down under the bed.

“What shall we do now?” she asked.

“At night-time, one sleeps!”

“Kris…”

“Yes?”

“Do you want a compress for your forehead?”

“No, thanks. Thank you… my darling.”

I don’t know why I had added those two words. In the darkness, I took her by her graceful shoulders. I felt them tremble, and I knew, without the least shadow of doubt, that I held Rheya in my arms. Or rather, I understood in that moment that she was not trying to deceive me; it was I who was deceiving her, since she sincerely believed herself to be Rheya.

I dropped off several times after that, and each time an anguished start jolted me awake. Panting, exhausted, I pressed myself closer to her; my heart gradually growing calmer. She touched me cautiously on the cheeks and forehead with the tips of her fingers, to see whether or not I was feverish. It was Rheya, the real Rheya, the one and only Rheya.

A change came over me; I ceased to struggle and almost at once I fell asleep.

I was awakened by an agreeable sensation of coolness. My face was covered by a damp cloth. I pulled it off and found Rheya leaning over me. She was smiling and squeezing out a second cloth over a bowl.

“What a sleep!” she said, laying another compress on my forehead. “Are you ill?”

“No.”

I wrinkled my forehead; the skin was supple once again. Rheya sat on the edge of my bed, her black hair brushed back over the collar of a bathrobe — a man’s bathrobe, with orange and black stripes, the sleeves turned back to the elbow.

I was terribly hungry; it was at least twenty hours since my last meal. When Rheya had finished her ministrations I got up. Two dresses, draped over the back of a chair caught my eye — two absolutely identical white dresses, each decorated with a row of red buttons. I myself had helped Rheya out of one of them, and she had reappeared, yesterday evening, dressed in the second. She followed my glance.

“I had to cut the seam open with scissors,” she said. “I think the zip fastener must have got stuck.”

The sight of the two identical dresses filled me with a horror which exceeded anything I had felt hitherto. Rheya was busy tidying up the medicine chest. I turned my back and bit my knuckles. Unable to take my eyes off the two dresses — or rather the original dress and its double — I backed towards the door. The basin tap was running noisily. I opened the door and, slipping out of the room, cautiously closed it behind me. I heard the sound of running water, the clinking of bottles; then, suddenly, all sound ceased. I waited, my jaw clenched, my hands gripping the door handle, but with little hope of holding it shut. It was nearly torn from my grasp by a savage jerk. But the door did not open; it shook and vibrated from top to bottom. Dazed, I let go of the handle and stepped back. The panel, made of some plastic material, caved in as though an invisible person at my side had tried to break into the room. The steel frame bent further and further inwards and the paint was cracking. Suddenly I understood: instead of pushing the door, which opened outwards, Rheya was trying to open it by pulling it towards her. The reflection of the lighting strip in the ceiling was distorted in the white-painted door-panel; there was a resounding crack and the panel, forced beyond its limits, gave way. Simultaneously the handle vanished, torn from its mounting. Two bloodstained hands appeared, thrusting through the opening and smearing the white paint with blood. The door split in two, the broken halves hanging askew on their hinges. First a face appeared, deathly pale, then a wild-looking apparition, dressed in an orange and black bathrobe, flung itself sobbing upon my chest.

I wanted to escape, but it was too late, and I was rooted to the spot. Rheya was breathing convulsively, her dishevelled head drumming against my chest. Before I could put my arms round her to hold her up, Rheya collapsed.

Avoiding the ragged edges of the broken panel, I carried her into the room and laid her on the bed. Her fingertips were grazed and the nails torn. When her hands turned upwards, I saw that the palms were cut to the bone. I examined her face; her glazed eyes showed no sign of recognition.

“Rheya.”

The only answer was an inarticulate groan.

I went over to the medicine chest. The bed creaked; I turned round; Rheya was sitting up, looking at her bleeding hands with astonishment.

“Kris,” she sobbed, “I… I… what happened to me?”

“You hurt yourself trying to break down the door,” I answered curtly.

My lips were twitching convulsively, and I had to bite the lower one to keep it under control.

Rheya’s glance took in the pieces of door-panel hanging from the steel frame, then she turned her eyes back towards me. She was doing her best to hide her terror, but I could see her chin trembling.

I cut off some squares of gauze, picked up a pot of antiseptic powder and returned to the bedside. The glass jar slipped through my hands and shattered — but I no longer needed it.