“But—­”

“No, don’t say anything that I may remember to torture me.  Lie to me.”

“I have never lied.”

“Madeleine, it is better to be merciful than to tell the truth, and, after all, what does such a confession mean?  It only means that you free your conscience and that the wound—­the ache—­remains with the other.  Whatever happens, never tell me.  Do you understand?”

This time she made no answer.  She even ceased to look at him, her head dropped back, her arms motionless, one finger only revolving slowly on the undulating arm of her chair.

“I shall try by all the strength that is in me never to ask that question,” he rushed on.  “I know I shall make a hundred vows not to do so, and I know that the first time I look into your face I shall blurt it out.  Ah, if—­if—­if it must be so, never let me know, for there are thoughts I cannot bear now that I’ve known you.”  He flung himself at her side and took her roughly in his arms.  “Madeleine, I know what I am saying.  I may tell you the contrary later.  I may say it lightly, pretending it is of no importance.  I may beg the truth of you with tears in my eyes—­I may swear to you that nothing but honesty counts between us, that I can understand, forgive, forget everything.  Well, whatever I say or do, never, never let me know—­if you value my happiness, my peace of mind, my life even!”

She laid her hand on his lips and then on his forehead to calm him, drawing his head to her shoulder.

“Listen, Ben,” she said, gently.  “I, the Madeleine Conti who loves you, am another being.  I adore you so that I shall hate all other men, as you will hate all other women.  There will never be the slightest deceit or infidelity between us.  Ask any questions of me at any time.  I know there can be from now on but one answer.  Have no fear.  Do not tire yourself in a senseless fever.  There is so little time left.  I love you.”

Never had he heard her voice so deep with sincerity and tenderness, and yet, as he surrendered to the touch of her soft hands, yielding up all his doubts, he was conscious of a new alarm creeping into his heart; and, dissatisfied with what he himself had a moment before implored, in the breath with which he whispered, “I believe you,” he said to himself: 

“Does she say that because she believes it or has she begun to lie?”

II

For seven years they lived the same existence, separated sometimes for three months, occasionally for six, and once because of a trip taken to South America for nearly a year.

The first time that he joined her, after five months of longing, he remained a week without crying out the words that were heavy on his heart.  One day she said to him: 

“What is there—­back of your eyes, hidden away, that you are stifling?”

“You know,” he blurted out.

“What?”