It continued monotonously for a long time, with little
breaks at rare intervals; it was rather like a parson reading a sermon
in an empty church. Then it ceased. And there were footsteps, which
approached the window, and retired. He noticed that the light within the
room was being moved, but it cast no human shadow on the blind. The
light came finally to a standstill, and then there followed sounds which
Hugo could not diagnose--short, regular sounds, broken occasionally by a
sharp clash, as of an instrument falling. And when these had come to an
end, there were more footsteps--a precise, quick walking to and fro,
which continued for ages of time. Lastly, the footsteps receded;
something dropped, not heavily, but rather in a manner gently subsiding,
and a groan (or was it a moan, a tired suspiration?) wakened in Hugo's
spinal column a curious, strange thrill. Then silence, complete,
definitive, terrifying.
By merely pushing the window against the blind, he could enter and know
the secret of the universe.
'Why am I doing this?' he asked himself, while he pushed the window.
'Why have I done this?' he asked himself, as he stood within the immense
and luxurious room.
He gazed round with a swift and timid glance, as a man would who expects
to see that which ought not to be seen.
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