takes advantage of his blindness in order to prolong his feigned ignorance, and that distresses me.  I long for him to recover his sight, for the doctors to save that doubtful eye—­and yet at the same time, I feel afraid.  What will he say when he recognizes me? . . .  But no; it is better that he should see, no matter what may result.  You cannot understand my anxiety, you cannot know what I am suffering.”

She was silent for an instant, trying to regain her self-control, again tortured with the agony of her soul.

“Oh, the war!” she resumed.  “What changes in our life!  Two months ago, my present situation would have appeared impossible, unimaginable. . . .  I caring for my husband, fearing that he would discover my identity and leave me, yet at the same time, wishing that he would recognize me and pardon me. . . .  It is only one week that I have been with him.  I disguise my voice when I can, and avoid words that may reveal the truth . . . but this cannot keep up much longer.  It is only in novels that such painful situations turn out happily.”

Doubt suddenly overwhelmed her.

“I believe,” she continued, “that he has recognized me from the first. . . .  He is silent and feigns ignorance because he despises me . . . because he can never bring himself to pardon me.  I have been so bad! . . .  I have wronged him so!”. . .

She was recalling the long and reflective silences of the wounded man after she had dropped some imprudent words.  After two days of submission to her care, he had been somewhat rebellious, avoiding going out with her for a walk.  Because of his blind helplessness, and comprehending the uselessness of his resistance, he had finally yielded in passive silence.

“Let him think what he will!” concluded Marguerite courageously.  “Let him despise me!  I am here where I ought to be.  I need his forgiveness, but if he does not pardon me, I shall stay with him just the same. . . .  There are moments when I wish that he may never recover his sight, so that he may always need me, so that I may pass my life at his side, sacrificing everything for him.”

“And I?” said Desnoyers.

Marguerite looked at him with clouded eyes as though she were just awaking.  It was true—­and the other one? . . .  Kindled by the proposed sacrifice which was to be her expiation, she had forgotten the man before her.

“You!” she said after a long pause.  “You must leave me. . . .  Life is not what we have thought it.  Had it not been for the war, we might, perhaps, have realized our dream, but now! . . .  Listen carefully and try to understand.  For the remainder of my life, I shall carry the heaviest burden, and yet at the same time it will be sweet, since the more it weighs me down the greater will my atonement be.  Never will I leave this man whom I have so grievously wronged, now that he is more alone in the world and will need protection like a child.  Why do you come to share my fate?  How could it be possible for you to live with a nurse constantly at the side of a blind and worthy man whom we would constantly offend with our passion? . . .  No, it is better for us to part.  Go your way, alone and untrammelled.  Leave me; you will meet other women who will make you more happy than I. Yours is the temperament that finds new pleasures at every step.”