When they were alone, a final remnant of dignity forbade them giving way to these hideous confidences, and, when Berthe was there at table, they turned the conversation at once so as not to cause any suffering to the young woman. They could hear her breathe with that uneven respiration, at times short and at others too deep, the breathing that reveals heart-disease. And this sensation of a physical suffering so close to them stirred up a remorse in Olivier and a pity in Pierre that took away all power to act. Thus the mornings and afternoons and evenings passed away. And both awaited with fear and impatience the moment of retiring. With impatience, because solitude brought with it the liberty of giving themselves up completely to their sentiments; with fear, because they both felt that the vow they had exchanged had not settled the conflict between their love and their friendship. It is written, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." And the Book adds, "He that hath looked upon the wife of another with desire in his heart hath already committed adultery." The phrase is admirable in its truth. It defines in a word the moral identity that exists between thought and act, concupiscence and possession. The conscience of the two friends was too delicate not to feel with shame that their thoughts, when once alone, were but one long, passionate infidelity to their vow. Olivier would begin to walk about from his room to that of his wife when Pierre had left him, talking to her, trying to utter affectionate words, fighting against the haunting idea which he knew would completely possess him shortly. Immediately he entered his room, what he called "his temptation" grasped him, bound him, and dominated him. All his Roman souvenirs recurred to his imagination. He saw Ely again. Hot the proud, coquettish Ely of former times, not the woman he had brutalized while desiring her, hated while loving her, through despair of never possessing her completely, but the Ely of the present moment, the woman whom he had seen so tender, so passionate, so sincere, with a soul that resembled her beauty. And all his soul went out toward this woman in an impulse of love and longing. He spoke to her aloud, appealing to her like a madman. The tone of his own voice would awake him from his dream. He felt all the horror and madness of this childishness. He realized the crime of his cowardly yearning. He thought of his friend, saying to himself, "If he only knew!" He would like to have begged his pardon for the impossibility of ceasing to love Ely, and also pardon for having made the vow he had not the power to keep. He knew that at the same moment Pierre was suffering as he was himself. The idea was dreadful. At these moments of his martyrdom one thought recurred again and again to Olivier's mind, one idea possessed his heart. He felt that he ought to go to Pierre and say: "You love her, and she loves you. Remain with her, and forget me."