en he recovered he continued:

"What is it in this way of living that has made you uneasy?"

"Your constant care not to commit yourself--"

"Commit myself how?"

"I do not know--"

"What else?"

"The anger that you show, or the embarrassment, when the name of Caffie
is pronounced, Madame Dammauville's, and Florentin's--"

"And you conclude that my anger on hearing these three names--"

"Nothing--I am afraid--"

CHAPTER XLIII

THE TERRIBLE REVELATION

This confession threw him into a state of confusion and agitation, for if
it did not go beyond what he feared, yet it revealed a terrible
situation.

Clearly, as in an open book, he read her; if she did not know all, she
was but one step from the truth, and if she had not taken this step, it
was because her love restrained her. If her love had been less strong,
less powerful, she certainly would not have withstood the proofs that
pressed on her from all sides.

But because she had held back so long, he must not conclude that the
struggle would be continued in this way, and that a more violent blow, a
stronger proof than the others, would not open her eyes in spite of
herself.

It only needed an imprudence, a carelessness on his part, and unluckily
he could no longer be relied on.

From what he had just learned it would be easy to watch himself closely,
and to avoid dangerous subjects, those that she described to him; but if
he could guard his words and looks during the day, neither saying nor
letting anything appear that was an accusation, not confirming the
suspicions against which she struggled, he could not do it at night.

He had not talked, and when she answered negatively to his question, she
lifted a terribly heavy weight from his heart. But he had groaned and
moaned, he had pronounced broken words without sense and unintelligible,
and there was the danger.

What was necessary to make these sighs, these groans, these broken and
unintelligible words become distinct and take a meaning? A nothing, an
accident, since his real cerebral tendency placed him up to a certain
point in a somnambulistic state. Was this tendency congenital with him or
acquired? He did not know. Before the agitated nights after Madame
Dammauville's death and Florentin's condemnation, the idea had never
occurred to him that he might talk in his sleep. But now he had the proof
that the vague fears which had tormented him on this subject were only
too well founded; he had