As I reached this decision, I heard echoing like a refrain, the hard words of Dr. Aynaud: “She is lost.” I recoiled from them. In order to overcome my scruples, I reviewed all the reassuring symptoms--the doctor’s final words, which had been less positive and less despondent, Raymonde’s youth, her health, and our long walks in the old days, the absence of any definite malady, especially the benefit that might be gained from improvement in her mental condition. Gaining some courage at last, I went to her room, and, composing myself, proceeded to endow the doctor with optimistic opinions that he had not held. It was a question of diet, rest and departure for the Sleeping Woods, as soon as the season would permit, I said. As I spoke, she looked at me as she had looked the day that I found fault with her for repulsing Pierre Ducal. Her eyes troubled me in the same way. The light tone I had adopted rang false, she knew. Ill as she was I was provoked at her for pointing out my own hypocrisy by the sheer limpidity of her eyes. “Don’t be afraid,” I went on. “The nurse is here. I’ll bring her in before I leave. You will have a quiet night.” “You are going out?” “Certainly. Why shouldn’t I? You are not so ill as all that.” “Truly?” “Of course. You can see that from my going out. I’ll see you in the morning, dear.” But on the doorstep, that “truly” lost its questioning meaning. She _knew_, as she had always known, as she knew at the Sleeping Woods, that my love was not bringing her happiness, as she knew, without proof, without any need of proof, that I was betraying her. Her “truly” meant: “The end will soon come, and you cannot even stay with me. Am I already of so little importance?” It found no fault; it simply stated a fact. And how should I get on in the future without tormenting her? I hurried down the steps to drive away this mingled vision of cruelty and remorse. “No, no,” I said, to encourage myself, “it is impossible. I am exaggerating. Sickness does not develop so quickly. This Dr. Aynaud has upset me by his stupid brutality.” Was it a fact then? Those pale and meagre cheeks, those dominating eyes, which dark rings made larger as a halo magnifies a light, that sad and suffering look in them that not even habit could accustom me to--was I to be deprived of them? A sense of danger suddenly gave me sympathy for her. Was I to lose her?