arless. They did not now feel
the irresistible necessity for tears. Weeping had become something
superfluous, like many other luxuries of peaceful days. Her eyes had
seen so much in so few days! . . .

"How you love him!" exclaimed Julio.

Fearing that they might be overheard and in order to keep him at a
distance, she had been speaking as though to a friend. But her lover's
sadness broke down her reserve.

"No, I love you. . . . I shall always love you."

The simplicity with which she said this and her sudden tenderness of
tone revived Desnoyers' hopes.

"And the other one?" he asked anxiously.

Upon receiving her reply, it seemed to him as though something had just
passed across the sun, veiling its light temporarily. It was as though
a cloud had drifted over the land and over his thoughts, enveloping them
in an unbearable chill.

"I love him, too."

She said it with a look that seemed to implore pardon, with the sad
sincerity of one who has given up lying and weeps in foreseeing the
injury that the truth must inflict.

He felt his hard wrath suddenly dwindling like a crumbling mountain. Ah,
Marguerite! His voice was tremulous and despairing. Could it be possible
that everything between these two was going to end thus simply? Were her
former vows mere lies? . . . They had been attracted to each other by an
irresistible affinity in order to be together forever, to be one. . . .
And now, suddenly hardened by indifference, were they to drift apart
like two unfriendly bodies? . . . What did this absurdity about loving
him at the same time that she loved her former husband mean, anyway?

Marguerite hung her head, murmuring desperately:

"You are a man, I am a woman. You would never understand me, no
matter what I might say. Men are not able to comprehend certain of
our mysteries. . . . A woman would be better able to appreciate the
complexity."

Desnoyers felt that he must know his fate in all its cruelty. She might
speak without fear. He felt strong enough to bear the blow. . . . What
had Laurier said when he found that he was being so tenderly cared for
by Marguerite? . . .

"He does not know who I am. . . . He believes me to be a war-nurse, like
the rest, who pities him seeing him alone and blind with no relatives
to write to him or visit him. . . . At certain times, I have almost
suspected that he guesses the truth. My voice, the touch of my hands
made him shiver at first, as though with an unpleasant