ous and painful--cried out:

"And I. . . . What will become of me?" . . .

As though he had suddenly found a solution which was reviving his
courage, Desnoyers said:

"Listen, Marguerite: I can read your soul. You love this man, and you
do well. He is superior to me, and women are always attracted by
superiority. . . . I am a coward. Yes, do not protest, I am a coward
with all my youth, with all my strength. Why should you not have been
impressed by the conduct of this man! . . . But I will atone for past
wrongs. This country is yours, Marguerite; I will fight for it. Do not
say no. . . ."

And moved by his hasty heroism, he outlined the plan more definitely. He
was going to be a soldier. Soon she would hear him well spoken of.
His idea was either to be stretched on the battlefield in his first
encounter, or to astound the world by his bravery. In this way the
impossible situation would settle itself--either the oblivion of death
or glory.

"No, no!" interrupted Marguerite in an anguished tone. "You, no! One
is enough. . . . How horrible! You, too, wounded, mutilated forever,
perhaps dead! . . . No, you must live. I want you to live, even though
you might belong to another. . . . Let me know that you exist, let me
see you sometimes, even though you may have forgotten me, even though
you may pass me with indifference, as if you did not know me."

In this outburst her deep love for him rang true--her heroic and
inflexible love which would accept all penalties for herself, if only
the beloved one might continue to live.

But then, in order that Julio might not feel any false hopes, she
added:--"Live; you must not die; that would be for me another torment.
. . . But live without me. No matter how much we may talk about it, my
destiny beside the other one is marked out forever."

"Ah, how you love him! . . . How you have deceived me!"

In a last desperate attempt at explanation she again repeated what she
had said at the beginning of their interview. She loved Julio . . . and
she loved her husband. They were different kinds of love. She could not
say which was the stronger, but misfortune was forcing her to choose
between the two, and she was accepting the most difficult, the one
demanding the greatest sacrifices.

"You are a man, and you will never be able to understand me. . . . A
woman would comprehend me."

It seemed to Julio, as he looked around him, as though the afternoon
were undergoing some celestial p