“You have a lover.”

She bent her head, then lifted it, grave and dumb.

Then he made a gesture as if to strike her, and at once recoiled in shame.  He lowered his eyes and was silent.  His fingers to his lips, and biting his nails, he saw that his hand had been pricked by a pin on her waist, and bled.  He threw himself in an armchair, drew his handkerchief to wipe off the blood, and remained indifferent and without thought.

She, with her back to the door, her face calm and pale, her look vague, arranged her hat with instinctive care.  At the noise, formerly delicious, that the rustle of her skirts made, he started, looked at her, and asked furiously: 

“Who is he?  I will know.”

She did not move.  She replied with soft firmness: 

“I have told you all I can.  Do not ask more; it would be useless.”

He looked at her with a cruel expression which she had never seen before.

“Oh, do not tell me his name.  It will not be difficult for me to find it.”

She said not a word, saddened for him, anxious for another, full of anguish and fear, and yet without regret, without bitterness, because her real soul was elsewhere.

He had a vague sensation of what passed in her mind.  In his anger to see her so sweet and so serene, to find her beautiful, and beautiful for another, he felt a desire to kill her, and he shouted at her: 

“Go!”

Then, weakened by this effort of hatred, which was not natural to him, he buried his head in his hands and sobbed.

His pain touched her, gave her the hope of quieting him.  She thought she might perhaps console him for her loss.  Amicably and comfortably she seated herself beside him.

“My friend, blame me.  I am to blame, but more to be pitied.  Disdain me, if you wish, if one can disdain an unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life.  In fine, judge me as you wish.  But keep for me a little friendship in your anger, a little bitter-sweet reminiscence, something like those days of autumn when there is sunlight and strong wind.  That is what I deserve.  Do not be harsh to the agreeable but frivolous visitor who passed through your life.  Bid good-by to me as to a traveller who goes one knows not where, and who is sad.  There is so much sadness in separation!  You were irritated against me a moment ago.  Oh, I do not reproach you for it.  I only suffer for it.  Reserve a little sympathy for me.  Who knows?  The future is always unknown.  It is very gray and obscure before me.  Let me say to myself that I have been kind, simple, frank with you, and that you have not forgotten it.  In time you will understand, you will forgive; to-day have a little pity.”

He was not listening to her words.  He was appeased simply by the caress of her voice, of which the tone was limpid and clear.  He exclaimed: 

“You do not love him.  I am the one whom you love.  Then—­”