He squeezed my hand, saying:  “Yes—­yes—­there are difficult moments.”

Then he plunged his face into a bowl of water.  When he emerged from it he did not yet seem to me to be presentable; but I thought of a little stratagem.  As he was growing worried, looking at himself in the mirror, I said to him:  “All you have to do is to say that a little dust flew into your eye and you can cry before everybody to your heart’s content.”

He went downstairs rubbing his eyes with his handkerchief.  All were worried; each one wished to look for the speck, which could not be found; and stories were told of similar cases where it had been necessary to call in a physician.

I went over to Mademoiselle Pearl and watched her, tormented by an ardent curiosity, which was turning to positive suffering.  She must indeed have been pretty, with her gentle, calm eyes, so large that it looked as though she never closed them like other mortals.  Her gown was a little ridiculous, a real old maid’s gown, which was unbecoming without appearing clumsy.

It seemed to me as though I were looking into her soul, just as I had into Monsieur Chantal’s; that I was looking right from one end to the other of this humble life, so simple and devoted.  I felt an irresistible longing to question her, to find out whether she, too, had loved him; whether she also had suffered, as he had, from this long, secret, poignant grief, which one cannot see, know, or guess, but which breaks forth at night in the loneliness of the dark room.  I was watching her, and I could observe her heart beating under her waist, and I wondered whether this sweet, candid face had wept on the soft pillow and she had sobbed, her whole body shaken by the violence of her anguish.

I said to her in a low voice, like a child who is breaking a toy to see what is inside:  “If you could have seen Monsieur Chantal crying a while ago it would have moved you.”

She started, asking:  “What?  He was weeping?”

“Ah, yes, he was indeed weeping!”

“Why?”

She seemed deeply moved.  I answered: 

“On your account.”

“On my account?”

“Yes.  He was telling me how much he had loved you in the days gone by; and what a pang it had given him to marry his cousin instead of you.”

Her pale face seemed to grow a little longer; her calm eyes, which always remained open, suddenly closed so quickly that they seemed shut forever.  She slipped from her chair to the floor, and slowly, gently sank down as would a fallen garment.

I cried:  “Help! help!  Mademoiselle Pearl is ill.”

Madame Chantal and her daughters rushed forward, and while they were looking for towels, water and vinegar, I grabbed my hat and ran away.

I walked away with rapid strides, my heart heavy, my mind full of remorse and regret.  And yet sometimes I felt pleased; I felt as though I had done a praiseworthy and necessary act.  I was asking myself:  “Did I do wrong or right?” They had that shut up in their hearts, just as some people carry a bullet in a closed wound.  Will they not be happier now?  It was too late for their torture to begin over again and early enough for them to remember it with tenderness.