Marguerite’s voice trembled when saying this as if she were going to cry, although her eyes were tearless.  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 sensation.  I have told him that I am a Beigian lady who has lost her loved ones and is alone in the world.  He has told me his life story very sketchily, as if he desired to forget a hated past. . . .  Never one disagreeable word about his former wife.  There are nights when I think that he knows me, that he