tall and radiant, he made a visible
effort to hold himself in, as if not daring to reach her with a single
word. Then he let himself go.

"I love you so much," he said simply.

"Ah," she answered, "you will not die!"

"How good you were," he replied, "to have been willing to be my sister
for so long!"

"Think of all you have done for me!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands
and bending her magnificent body toward him, as if prostrating herself
before him.

You could tell that they were speaking open-heartedly. What a good
thing it is to be frank and speak without reticence, without the shame
and guilt of not knowing what one is saying and for each to go straight
to the other. It is almost a miracle.

They were silent. He closed his eyes, though continuing to see her,
then opened them again and looked at her.

"You are my angel who do not love me."

His face clouded. This simple sight overwhelmed me. It was the
infiniteness of a heart partaking of nature--this clouding of his face.

I saw with what love he lifted himself up to her. She knew it. There
was a great gentleness in her words, in her attitude toward him, which
in every little detail showed that she knew his love. She did not
encourage him, or lie to him, but whenever she could, by a word, by a
gesture, or by some beautiful silence, she would try to console him a
little for the harm she did him by her presence and by her absence.

After studying her face again, while the shadow drew him still nearer
to her in spite of himself, he said:

"You are the sad confidante of my love of you."

He spoke of their marriage again. Since all preparations had been
made, why not marry at once?

"My fortune, my name, Anna, the chaste love that will be left to you
from me when--when I shall be gone."

He wanted to transform his caress--too light, alas--into a lasting
benefit for the vague future. For the present all he aspired to was
the feeble and fictitious union implied in the word marriage.

"Why speak of it?" she said, instead of giving a direct answer, feeling
an almost insurmountable repugnance, doubtless because of her love for
Michel, which the sick man had declared in her stead. While she had
consented in principle to marrying him and had allowed the preliminary
steps to be taken, she had never replied definitely to his urgings.

But it looked to me as if she were about to make a different decision,
one contrary to her material interests, i