. . . She has healed me, and never--you hear me,
Pierre, never will I marry anybody."
Ah! what unhoped-for sweetness! He thought that a balmy dew was falling
on his poor wounded heart. It was a divine enchantment, a delicious
relief. If she belonged to none other she would always be a little bit
his own. And how well she had known his torment and what it was needful
she should say in order that life might yet be possible for him.
In his turn he wished to find happy words and promise that he also would
ever be hers, ever love her as he had loved her since childhood, like the
dear creature she was, whose one kiss, long, long ago, had sufficed to
perfume his entire life. But she made him stop, already anxious, fearing
to spoil that pure moment. "No, no, my friend," she murmured, "let us say
nothing more; it would be wrong, perhaps. I am very weary; I shall sleep
quietly now."
And, with her head against his shoulder, she fell asleep at once, like a
sister who is all confidence. He for a moment kept himself awake in that
painful happiness of renunciation which they had just tasted together. It
was all over, quite over now; the sacrifice was consummated. He would
live a solitary life, apart from the life of other men. Never would he
know woman, never would any child be born to him.
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