er. They exchanged only tender trivial phrases.
And, as she was very hungry, he took her to lunch at a well-known
_cabaret_ whose name shone in letters of gold on one of the old houses
in the square. They had their meal served in the winter-garden, whose
rockery, fountain, and solitary tree were multiplied by mirrors framed
in a green trellis. When seated at the table, consulting the bill of
fare, they conversed with less restraint than heretofore. He told her
that the emotions and worries of the past three days had unstrung his
nerves, but he no longer thought about it, and it would be absurd to
worry about the matter any further. She spoke to him of her health,
complaining that she could not sleep, save for a restless slumber full
of dreams. But she did not tell him what she saw in those dreams, and
she avoided speaking of the dead man. He asked her if she had not spent
a tiring morning, and why she had gone to the cemetery, a useless
proceeding.

Incapable of explaining to him the depths of her soul, submissive to
rites and propitiatory ceremonies and incantations, she shook her head
as if to say:

"Had to."

While those lunching at the adjoining tables were finishing their meal,
they talked for a long time, both in subdued tones, while waiting to be
served.

Robert had promised himself, had sworn indeed never to reproach Felicie
for having had Chevalier for her lover, or even to ask her a single
question in this connection. And yet, moved by some obscure resentment,
by an ebullition of ill-temper or natural curiosity, and also because he
loved her too deeply to control himself, he said to her, with bitterness
in his voice:

"You were on intimate terms with him, formerly."

She was silent, and did not deny the fact. Not that she felt that it was
henceforth useless to lie. On the contrary, she was in the habit of
denying the obvious truth, and she had, of course, too much knowledge of
men to be ignorant of the fact that, when in love, there is no lie,
however clumsy, which they cannot believe if they wish to do so. But on
this occasion, contrary to her nature and habit, she refrained from
lying. She was afraid of offending the dead. She imagined that in
denying him she would be doing him a wrong, depriving him of his share,
angering him. She held her peace, fearing to see him come and rest his
elbows on the table, with his fixed smile and the hole in his head, and
to hear him say in his plaintive voice. "Felic