Louise Brion had felt a pity for Hautefeuille at the very moment when she had received Ely's confession in the garden of her villa, at the very moment she had implored her friend to give up the dangerous passion she had inspired in the young Frenchman. From that evening she had felt an interest in the young man, in his sentiments, in his movements, even though at the time she was using all the eloquence that her trembling affection could suggest to persuade Ely to see him no more. When Ely gave herself up entirely to her passion later, Louise had withdrawn, had effaced herself, on account of her scruples, and in order that she might not be a witness of an intrigue which her conscience considered a great crime. She had gone away through discretion, so as to not impose an inopportune friendship on the two lovers, and delicacy had also had its share in her retirement, for she had felt all the shrinking of the pure woman from forbidden ecstasy. But she had not felt the least hostility to Pierre in her retirement and self-effacement. Her tender woman's imagination had not ceased to link him, in spite of herself, with the romantic passion of her friend. The singular displacement of her personality, which had always made her lead, in imagination, the life Ely was living, rather than her own individual existence, had continued, had been even accentuated. Since Olivier's return this identification of her feelings with those of her dear friend had been more and more complete. The dinner at Monte Carlo with the Du Prats in such close proximity had made her feverish with anxiety. She had expected an appeal from her friend from that moment. She had lived in expectancy of this summons to help Ely to bear her terrors, to fight with her friend, to share the sufferings of a love whose happiness she had vainly striven to ignore. She was thus neither surprised nor deceived by Ely's despatch, which simply spoke of a little indisposition. She divined the catastrophe that had happened at once, and before the end of the afternoon she was sitting at the bedside of the poor woman, receiving, accepting, provoking all her confidences, without any further inclination to condemn her. She was ready to do anything to dry the tears that flowed down the beloved face, to calm the fever that burned in the little hand she held. She was ready for anything, weak enough for anything, with indulgence for all and in the secret of all!