If he did not insist it was not only because he knew that habit was necessary to make her submit to his will without being able to defend herself, but because he was ignorant whether, when she awoke, she had any memory of what happened in her sleep, which was an important point. The next night she was the same as she had been the previous evening, and nothing indicated that she was conscious of her provoked sleep, any more than what she said in this sleep. He could then continue. This time she went to sleep sooner and more easily than usual, and her face took the expression of tranquillity and repose he had seen the night before. Would she answer? And if she consented, would she speak sincerely, without attempting to weaken or falsify the truth? Emotion made his voice tremble when he put the first question; it was his life, his peace, the happiness of both which decided him. “Where do you suffer?” he asked. “I do not suffer.” “Yet you are agitated, often melancholy or uneasy; you do not sleep well. What troubles you?” “I am afraid.” “Afraid of what? Of whom?” “Of you!” He trembled. “Afraid of me! Do you think that I could hurt you?” “No.” His tightened heart relaxed. “Then why are you afraid?” “Because there are things in you that frighten me.” “What things? Be exact.” “The change that has taken place in your temper, your character, and your habits.” “And how do these changes make you uneasy?” “They indicate a serious situation.” “What situation?” “I do not know; I have never stated exactly.” “Why not?” “Because I was afraid; and I closed my eyes so that I might not see.” “See what?” “The explanation of all that is mysterious in your life.” “When did you notice the mystery in my life?” “At the time of Caffie’s death; and before, when you told me that you could kill him without any remorse.” “Do you know who killed Caffie?” “No.” His relief was so great that for several moments he forgot to continue his interrogations. Then he went on: “And after?” “A little before Madame Dammauville’s death, when you became irritable and furious without cause; when you told me to go because you did not wish to see Madame Dammauville; when, the night before her death, you were so tender, and asked me not to judge you without recalling that hour.” “Yet you have judged me.” “Never. When worry urged me, my love checked me.” “What provoked this uneasiness outside of these facts?” “Your manner of living since our marriage; your accesses of anger and of tenderness; your fear of being observed; your agitation at night; your complaints--” “I talked?” he cried. “Never distinctly; you groan often, and moan, pronouncing broken words without sense, unintelligible--” His anguish was violent; when he recovered he continued: “What is it in this way of living that has made you uneasy?” “Your constant care not to commit yourself--” “Commit myself how?” “I do not know--” “What else?”