At last, Honoré drew near to Silvine, and in full view of all that darkness through which fierce quiverings sped, he gently said to her, 'So you are unhappy?' 'Yes, very unhappy.' She divined that he was going to speak of the abomination, and she lowered her head. 'Tell me,' he resumed; 'how did it happen?' At first she could not answer him, but he plied her with questions, and at last, in a choking voice, she stammered: 'My God! I do not know; I swear to you I do not even know. But it would be wrong to tell a lie, and I cannot excuse myself. I cannot say that he struck me--but you were gone, and I was mad, and it came to pass I know not, I know not how.' Her sobs were stifling her, and for a moment Honoré paused. His face was ashy pale, and his throat contracted. However, the idea that she refused to tell a lie rendered him somewhat calmer. At last he began questioning her afresh, his mind still busy with all that he did not as yet understand. 'All the same, my father kept you here?' said he. Growing calmer once more, again recovering her expression of courageous resignation, she answered, without raising her eyes: 'I do his work; I don't cost much to keep; and now, as there is another mouth besides my own to feed, he has lowered my wages. He knows well enough that, whatever he may order me to do, I am now obliged to do it.' 'But you, why did you stay?' At this she was so surprised that she raised her eyes and looked at him: 'I? Where would you have me go? Here, at least my little one and I have something to eat, and live in peace.' The silence fell once more. They were now looking into one another's eyes. The panting of the throng was ascending in increased volume from the dark valley below, and the rumbling of the guns as they rolled over the pontoon bridge seemed interminable. Suddenly a loud cry, the forlorn cry of some man or beast, infinitely piteous, sped through the dark expanse. 'Listen to me, Silvine,' slowly resumed Honoré; 'you sent me a letter which gave me great joy. But for that I should never have come back here. I read it again this evening, and in it you say things that could not be better said.' She had at first turned pale on hearing him mention her letter. Perhaps he was angry with her for having dared to write to him like some bold, vulgar wench. But as he proceeded, she became quite red. 'I know you don't like lying,' continued Honoré, 'and for that reason I believe what you wrote to me. Yes, I now thoroughly believe it. You were right in thinking that if I had been killed during the war, without seeing you again, I should have been very unhappy at the thought that you did not love me. But since you still love me, since you have never loved anybody else----'