Two days later, he remained until after dinner, which he had never dared to do before, except on a Sunday. Elizabeth, asked to open the piano, played the "Appassionata," which had revealed to Marie Louise the attraction of melancholy. He was behind her. Music exercised a deep influence on him. In addition to his studies in history, he had always reserved a portion of his time for it, and his works bore the trace of it. At the last chord, he bent toward her, and murmured: "Forgive me, Elizabeth." For a man of so much pride, it was the most pathetic avowal. She stood up at once before him. Dressed in black, her face in darkness, she held herself like a flower on a long stem, which is awaiting the day. Her eyes wide open and bewildered, glowed in the dusk. The mask of unconcern discarded, he saw her again so fragile, so easy to destroy, no longer able to resist this state of uncertainty, just as she had appeared to him at the death bed of his mother, or in Paris in the little, drawing-room in the Paris Hotel. Softened, he repeated: "Forgive me." Her mouth twisted; and it was a contraction he had noticed at the corners of Anne's lips. "You know quite well," she said, and he was conscious of the deepened tone of her voice, "you know quite well that I have forgiven you. I had my faults as well." He answered very quickly, with the bitter knowledge of his cruelty, of his cowardice; but, cowardly and cruel, it would be necessary to love but once, to overcome that, and even then.... "I did not know how much I loved you. You are the wife of my youth, Elizabeth. I find all my love for you intact." "Intact?" she repeated. And she gazed at him with large troubled eyes. Had the hour come? Trembling, ready to fall into his arms, she was waiting for one single word: "Yes." He wanted to draw her to him, to press her to his heart. So many bonds were being renewed; could the distance ever be bridged? Did she read to the depth of his troubled heart? She knew his desire and gently rejected it: "No, no, Albert, not yet, Please!" "Elizabeth, remember, I have loved you." And in a lower voice, as if remorsefully: "I do love you." "If you love me, go away to-night. Do not remain here. I beg you--if you love me." Her eyes, too intense, supplicated him, even more than her words. "Yes, Elizabeth, I must be worthy of you." With a heavy heart, only half free from another passion which exaltation could momentarily cloak with a film, but not suppress, he went away into the dark and starry night. From the threshold, she tried to pierce the darkness to catch the sound of his footsteps. Bewildered, trembling, with a thrill of emotion, she thought: "Why has he gone?" V THE PHANTOM