His pain touched her, gave her the hope of quieting him. She thought she might perhaps console him for her loss. Amicably and comfortably she seated herself beside him. "My friend, blame me. I am to blame, but more to be pitied. Disdain me, if you wish, if one can disdain an unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life. In fine, judge me as you wish. But keep for me a little friendship in your anger, a little bitter-sweet reminiscence, something like those days of autumn when there is sunlight and strong wind. That is what I deserve. Do not be harsh to the agreeable but frivolous visitor who passed through your life. Bid good-by to me as to a traveller who goes one knows not where, and who is sad. There is so much sadness in separation! You were irritated against me a moment ago. Oh, I do not reproach you for it. I only suffer for it. Reserve a little sympathy for me. Who knows? The future is always unknown. It is very gray and obscure before me. Let me say to myself that I have been kind, simple, frank with you, and that you have not forgotten it. In time you will understand, you will forgive; to-day have a little pity." He was not listening to her words. He was appeased simply by the caress of her voice, of which the tone was limpid and clear. He exclaimed: "You do not love him. I am the one whom you love. Then--" She hesitated: "Ah, to say whom one loves or loves not is not an easy thing for a woman, or at least for me. I do not know how other women do. But life is not good to me. I am tossed to and fro by force of circumstances." He looked at her calmly. An idea came to him. He had taken a resolution; he forgave, he forgot, provided she returned to him at once. "Therese, you do not love him. It was an error, a moment of forgetfulness, a horrible and stupid thing that you did through weakness, through surprise, perhaps in spite. Swear to me that you never will see him again." He took her arm: "Swear to me!" She said not a word, her teeth were set, her face was sombre. He wrenched her wrist. She exclaimed: "You hurt me!" However, he followed his idea; he led her to the table, on which, near the brushes, were an ink-stand, and several leaves of letter-paper ornamented with a large blue vignette, representing the facade of the hotel, with innumerable windows. "Write what I am about to dictate to you. I will call somebody to take the letter." And as she resisted, he made her fall on her knees. Proud and determined, she said: "I can not, I will not." "Why?" "Because--do you wish to know?--because I love him." Brusquely he released her. If he had had his revolver at hand, perhaps he would have killed her. But almost at once his anger was dampened by sadness; and now, desperate, he was the one who wished to die. "Is what you say true? Is it possible?" "How do I know? Can I say? Do I understand? Have I an idea, a sentiment, about anything?" With an effort she added: