"You are mistaken, Olivier," replied Pierre. "Of course it pains me; I do not deny it. But the suffering does not come from my resolution--that I have never regretted for a moment. No, the suffering is caused by the past. But it is past, and forever. It would be intolerable for us both were I to return to her under these conditions. No, I have given you my word and I repeat it. As to what you say, that I love her more than I love you, you have only to look at me." Big, heavy tears were in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he spoke. Tears also sprang from Olivier's heart to his eyes at the sight. For a few moments they remained without speaking. This common suffering, after their long silence, brought their souls closer together again. The same impulse of pity had made Olivier release Pierre from his vow and had made Pierre refuse to be released. It was the same impulse of pity that brought tears to their eyes. Each pitied the other and each felt he was pitied. Their affection returned in all its strength, and their friendship moved them so deeply that once again love was conquered. Pierre was the first to dry his eyes. With the same resolute tone as when he made his vow, he said: "I shall leave when you do, in two days, and it will not cause me a single pang. To remain here would be impossible. I will not do you that injustice. I will not be a traitor to our friendship." "Ah, my dear boy," replied Olivier, "you give me a fresh lease of life. I would have left you without a single reproach, without a complaint. I was very sincere in my proposition, but it was too hard. I believe it would have killed me." After this conversation they passed an afternoon and evening that were strangely quiet, almost happy. When the soul is ill, there are such moments of respite, just as when the body is diseased--moments of languid calm, when it appears as though one were brought to life again, still feeble and bruised, it is true. This sensation of recovery, fragile and feeble though it might be, was increased in the two friends by the convalescence of Berthe. Olivier had contented her and brought about her recovery, by what charitable deceptions no one but he knew. But the young wife was much better and could walk about, devoting her attention to the many details of their approaching departure. She was so visibly happy to go away that a tiny trace of reserve seemed to melt away before her pleasure. She had suffered so much in these last few days, and the suffering had been sufficient to awake her feminine tact from its long sleep. She had made a resolution. It was to win her husband's love, and to merit it. Such efforts are touching to a man who can understand them, for they indicate such humility and so much devotion. It is so hard for a young wife, it is so opposed to her instincts of sentimental pride, to beg for a sentiment, to provoke it, to conquer. It is so hard to be loved because she loves, and not because she is loved.