I was astonished at suffering so little. I had thought I should die on learning the truth, and I felt only an extreme lassitude, a benumbing of all my being. For a long while, I remained leaning upon my elbows, staring at the two shadows which were agitating themselves in a curious fashion, and I thought of the terrible episode which was finished by the kisses of two dark stains upon an illuminated wall. The conversation which I had had with Jacques then returned forcibly to my memory; in the gulf which had opened within me I heard, repeated one by one, gravely and slowly, the words of the practical man, and those words, which I imagined I was listening to for the first time, astonished me strangely, uttered in the presence of the kisses which the shadow of Jacques was giving to the shadow of Laurence. Who was deceived in all this? Was Pâquerette right, or was I staring at one of those inexplicable caprices of the mind, which urge people to lie to themselves? Could it be possible that Jacques was devoting himself to save me, going as far as deceptive caresses? Singular devotedness, which could strike me in my flesh, in my heart, and cure me of an evil by an evil more terrible still! Little by little, my thoughts grew troubled, I no longer possessed the calmness of the first moment. I could not comprehend those kisses, and, at last, I began to fear that what I had seen was only a miserable trick. The struggle between doubt and certainty was, for an instant, re-established within me, sharper, more biting, than ever. I could not imagine that Jacques loved Laurence; I believed more in him than I believed in Pâquerette. Then, I said to myself that kisses have their intoxication, and that he would learn to love this woman, if he did not love her already, by applying his lips to her lips in that fashion. Hence I suffered anew. My jealousy was reawakened, my anguish again took me by the throat. I should have retired from that window, I should not have abandoned myself to the sight of those two shadows. What I suffered in a few minutes cannot be told; it seemed to me that they had torn out my heart and that I could not weep. The truth was clear, inexorable: little did it matter whether Jacques loved or did not love Laurence; Laurence hung upon his neck, gave herself to him, and she was henceforward dead for me. There was the sole reality, the dénouement at once desired and feared. Amid the horrible torture which racked my being, I felt everything crumble away within me; I realized that I was now without faith, without love; I went back to Marie's bed and knelt beside it, sobbing. Marie awoke, she saw my tears. She made a superhuman effort, and, quivering with fever, sat up in bed. I saw her bend down, leaning her head upon my shoulder, I felt her wasted and burning arm encircle my neck. Her eyes, luminous amid the darkness, full to overflowing with the brightness of death, questioned me with fright and compassion.