Her hand withdrew from mine, and placed itself on my head, and I understood without Raymonde’s saying so, that I was forgiven. But could it be done so quickly? The work which was being accomplished within me did not permit me to renounce so easily the chance to describe the scene of my conversion. I wished her to know its whole extent, and I began: “Listen--” With an authority unexpected from one so weak, she broke off my confidences. “I do not wish to hear,” she said. Completely overcome by her grace, I wished at least to cry out my love for her. I went on stammering, when I saw her raise herself and put her face close to mine. “Oh, my dear,” she said; “you are weeping, as on the night of our marriage at the Sleeping Woods,--do you remember?” She told me that I wept, and, as on that occasion, she added: “But it is so simple.” I did not understand at once what she meant by it. Then I feared to understand it, and interpreted it in my own way. “Yes, is it not? It is so simple for us to love each other.” She looked at me for a long time, surprised, and repeated: “For us to love?” And then no doubt she inwardly reproached herself for evading the truth, at a time when truth was appearing plain to us, for she replied, in a calm voice: “Why do you not tell me that I must die?” I rose quickly. “Oh, Raymonde, I beg of you, do not say that.” I could doubt it no more than she. As I had left her in the evening I had known it. And it was that which had enlightened me about myself, which had flooded me with light. With the same tone of authority, she calmed me: “That too is so simple,” she repeated. With a supreme effort I tried to rebuild some hope. I spoke to her of her youth, of my love, and of Dilette-- “Oh, Dilette,” she said, and for the first time she grew tender. I spoke of our return to the Sleeping Woods, of the wonderful air she would breathe there, and of the spring, which would soon come. “Dearest, do you remember the first of May?” I asked. My words drew a faint smile from her, delicate as flowers that grow in sandy soil. Encouraged by her smile, I insisted: “We can still be happy.” But she declared gravely: “I _am_ happy.” “Henceforth we shall always be happy.” “Yes, always.” And as if to intensify the meaning of the word “always,” she murmured these strange words: “Do not be afraid, my dear. I have accepted it, so as not to be a burden to you--” “What do you mean?” I inquired anxiously. She did not seem to have heard my interruption, and went on: “Now I am so happy that I dare not refuse God--” What was this mysterious compact that she had entered into, at first with unconscious delicacy and now renewed by deeds of mercy? The mystery was so painful to me that I leaned closer to her and entreated her: “Raymonde, I beg of you, tell me what it is you have accepted.” She threw back her head a little, looked at me with unspeakable gentleness, and let fall like an avowal of love: “Death--Do you not see it--?”