He must know.

He persisted in his questions, but she was always on her guard, so that he was unable to draw anything from her, checked as he was by the fear of betraying himself, which seemed easy at the point he believed she had reached.  An awkward word, too much persistence, would let a flood of light into her mind.

He also affected to speak as a physician when questioning her, and to look for medical explanations of her condition.

“If you do not sleep it is because you suffer.  What is this suffering?  From what does it proceed?”

Having no reasons to give to justify it, since she did not even dare to speak of her brother, she denied it obstinately.

“But nothing is the matter with me, I assure you,” she repeated.  “What do you think is the matter?”

“That is what I ask you.”

“Then I ask you:  What do you think I conceal from you?”

He could not say that he suspected her of concealing anything from him.

“You do not watch yourself properly.”

“I can do nothing.”

“I will force you to watch yourself and to speak.”

“How?”

“By putting you to sleep.”

The threat was so terrible that she was beside herself.

“Do not do that!” she cried.

They looked at each other for a few moments in silence, both equally frightened, she at the threat, he at what he would learn from her.  But to show this fright was on his side to let loose another proof even more grave.

“Why should I not seek to discover in every way the cause of this uneasiness which escapes my examination as well as yours?  For that somnambulism offers us an excellent way.”

“But since I am not ill, what more could I tell you when I am asleep than when I am awake?”

“We shall see.”

“It is an experiment that I ask you not to attempt.  Would you try a poison on me?”

“Somnambulism is not a poison.”

“Who knows?”

“Those who have made use of it.”

“But you have not.”

“Still I know enough to know that you will run no danger in my hands.”

She believed that he opened a door of escape to her.

“Never mind, I am too much afraid.  If you ever want to make me talk in a state of forced somnambulism, ask one of your ‘confreres’ in whom you have confidence to put me to sleep.”

Before a ‘confrere’ she was certain he would not ask her dangerous questions.

He understood that she wished to escape him.

“Afraid of what?” he asked.  “That I shall ask you questions about the past, concerning your life before we knew each other, and demand a confession that would wound my love?”

“O Victor!” she cried, distracted.  “What more cruel wound could you give me than these words?  My confession!  It comprises three words:  I love you; I have never loved any one but you; I shall never love any one but you.  I have no past; my life began with my love.”