Blood stuck all over one side of her body and clothing. On the other side, the small hole made in her upper chest by the little 4.25 mm bullet had stopped bleeding. The young woman seemed to have forgotten the 180,000 francs in the baggage claim and the train to Paris. She rode north for seven or eight kilometers, then lost consciousness for several seconds, long enough for the Mercedes to leave the road. When she regained consciousness after her brief daze, it was too late to right the car. She braked with all her strength, standing on the brake pedal. Meanwhile a wheel of the powerful car struck a ditch, the Mercedes jumped the bank and slid, tearing grass and earth, then hit a tree. The chassis and body twisted in place. Aimee banged her head against a doorframe. Coughing, she rested a moment in the wreck. Presently she left the crashed car. A dirt path began on the side of the road, ten meters away. Aimee set out on foot, limping. Dawn arrived. Aimee’s temples pounded. After a moment, I don’t know whether it is a vision she had due to blood loss, or for some other reason, but it seems to me she is now dressed in a splendid scarlet dress, an evening gown, spangled even; and the sunrise is a glorious golden light; in high heels and in her scarlet dress, Aimee, whole and extremely beautiful, easily ascends a cloudy slope which resembles the foothills of Mont-Blanc. WISE AND VOLUPTUOUS WOMEN, IT IS YOU TO WHOM I SPEAK.