“How I shall suffer!” he said to himself.

“You are going so far away from me,” she said suddenly, warned by some woman’s instinct.

He was startled at the conjunction of her words and his moods.  He returned hastily, and sat down beside her.  She took his head in her hands and looked anxiously into his eyes.

“What is it?” she said.  “You are afraid?”

“A little,” he said reluctantly.

“Of what—­of the months that will come?”

“Of the past.”

“What do you mean?” she said, withdrawing a little as though disturbed by the thought.

“When I am with you I know there is not a corner of your heart that I do not possess,” he began evasively.

“Well?”

“Only it’s the past—­the habits of the past,” he murmured.  “I know you so well, Madeleine, you have need of strength, you don’t go on alone.  That is the genius of women like you—­to reach out and attach to themselves men who will strengthen them, compel them on.”

“Ah, I understand,” she said slowly.

“Yes, that is what I’m afraid of,” he said rapidly.

“You are thinking of the artist, not the woman.”

“Ah, there is no difference—­not to a man who loves,” he said impulsively.  “I know how great your love is for me, and I believe in it.  I know nothing will come to efface it.  Only you will be lonely, you’ll have your trials and annoyances, days of depression, of doubt, when you will need some one to restore your faith in yourself, your courage in your work, and then, I don’t say you will love any one else, but you will need some one near you who loves you, always at your service—­”

“If you could only understand me,” she said, interrupting him.  “Men, other men, are like actors to me.  When I am on the stage, when I am playing Manon, do you think I see who is playing Des Grieux?  Not at all.  He is there, he gives me my replique, he excites my nerves, I say a thousand things under my breath, when I am in his arms I adore him, but when the curtain goes down, I go off the stage and don’t even say good night to him.”

“But he, he doesn’t know that.”

“Of course not; tenors never do.  Well, that is just the way I have lived, that is just what men have meant to me.  They give the replique to my moods, to my needs, and when I have no longer need of them, I go off tranquilly.  That is all there is to it.  I take from them what I want.  Of course they will be around me, but they will be nothing to me.  They will be like managers, press-agents, actors.  Don’t you understand that?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” he said without sincerity.  Then he blurted out, “I wish you had not said it, all the same.”

“Why?”

“I cannot see it as you see it, and besides, you put a doubt in my mind that I never wish to feel.”

“What doubt?”

“Do I really have you, or only a mood of yours?”