Suzanne reflected, without taking her eyes from Marthe, as though she were spying for a sign of uneasiness on her features or seeking to fathom the depths of her most secret thoughts. She murmured: "And, if he deceived you?" This time, the thrust went home. Marthe shivered, stung to the quick. Her face altered. And she said, in a voice which she made an effort to contain: "Oh, that, no! If Philippe fell in love with another woman, if he wanted to begin his life again, without me, and if he confessed it frankly, I should consent to everything ... yes, to everything, even to a divorce, however great my despair.... But treachery, lying ..." "You would not forgive him?" "Never! Philippe is not a man whom one can forgive. He is a conscious man, who knows what he is doing, incapable of a weakness; and no forgiveness would absolve him. Besides, I myself could not ... no ... I could not indeed." And she added, "I have too much pride." The phrase was gravely and simply uttered and revealed a haughtiness of soul which Suzanne had not suspected. She felt a sort of confusion in the presence of the rival whom she was attacking and who held her at bay with such disdain. A long silence divided the two women; and Marthe said: "You're in one of your wicked moods to-day, Suzanne, aren't you?" "I am too happy to be wicked," chuckled the girl. "Only it's such a strange happiness! I am afraid it won't last." "Your marriage ..." "I won't get married!" declared Suzanne, excitedly. "I won't get married at any price! I hate that man.... He's not the only man in the world, is he? There are others ... others who will love me.... I too am worthy of being loved ... worthy of being lived for!..." There were tears in her voice; and so great a despondency overwhelmed her features that Marthe felt a longing to console her, as was her habit in such cases. Nevertheless, she said nothing. Suzanne had wounded her, not so much by her questions as by her attitude, by a certain sarcasm in her accent and by an air of defiance that mingled with the expression of her grief. She preferred to cut short a painful scene the meaning of which escaped her, although the scene itself did not astonish her on Suzanne's part: "I am going downstairs," she said. "It's time for the post; and I am expecting letters." "So you're leaving me!" said Suzanne, in a broken voice. Marthe could not help laughing: "Well, yes, I am leaving you in this room ... unless you refuse to stay...." Suzanne ran after her and, holding her back: "You mustn't! I only ask for a movement, a kind word.... I am passing through a terrible time, I need help and you ... you repel me.... It's you who are repelling me, don't forget that.... It's you...." "That's understood," said Marthe. "I am a cruel friend.... Only, you see, my dear little Suzanne, if the thought of your marriage upsets you to that extent, it might be a good plan to tell your father.... Come, come along downstairs and calm yourself."