When he smiled, she smiled too, but never alone; when he spoke, she replied, and she ate what he served her; but there was about her a silence which was only broken at his instance.  In her languor could be clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that lethargy of the weaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in the other and responds to him as does the echo.  The young man was conscious of it, and seemed proud of it and grateful for it; but it could be seen even by his pride that his happiness was new to him.

When the woman became sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with his glance; but he could not always succeed, and seemed troubled himself.  That mingling of strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of anxiety and serenity, could not have been understood by an indifferent spectator; at times they appeared the most happy of living creatures, and the next moment the most unhappy; but, although ignorant of their secret, one would have felt that they were suffering together, and, whatever their mysterious trouble, it could be seen that they had placed on their sorrow a seal more powerful than love itself-friendship.  While their hands were clasped their glances were chaste; although they were alone they spoke in low tones.  As if overcome by their feelings, they sat face to face, although their lips did not touch.  They looked at each other tenderly and solemnly.  When the clock struck one, the woman heaved a sigh and said: 

“Octave, are you sure of yourself?”

“Yes, my friend, I am resolved.  I shall suffer much, a long time, perhaps forever; but we will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God.”

“Octave, Octave,” repeated the woman, “are you sure you are not deceiving yourself?”

“I do not believe we can forget each other; but I believe that we can forgive, and that is what I desire even at the price of separation.”

“Why could we not meet again?  Why not some day—­you are so young!”

Then she added, with a smile: 

“We could see each other without danger.”

“No, my friend, for you must know that I could never see you again without loving you.  May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you!  Smith is brave, good, and honest, but however much you may love him, you see very well that you still love me, for if I should decide to remain, or to take you away with me, you would consent.”

“It is true,” replied the woman.

“True! true!” repeated the young man, looking into her eyes with all his soul.  “Is it true that if I wished it you would go with me?”

Then he continued, softly: 

“That is the reason why I must never see you again.  There are certain loves in life that overturn the head, the senses, the mind, the heart; there is among them all but one that does not disturb, that penetrates, and that dies only with the being in which it has taken root.”

“But you will write to me?”