She said not a word, her teeth were set, her face was sombre. He wrenched her wrist. She exclaimed:
“You hurt me!”
However, he followed his idea; he led her to the table, on which, near the brushes, were an ink-stand, and several leaves of letter-paper ornamented with a large blue vignette, representing the facade of the hotel, with innumerable windows.
“Write what I am about to dictate to you. I will call somebody to take the letter.”
And as she resisted, he made her fall on her knees. Proud and determined, she said:
“I can not, I will not.”
“Why?”
“Because—do you wish to know?—because I love him.”
Brusquely he released her. If he had had his revolver at hand, perhaps he would have killed her. But almost at once his anger was dampened by sadness; and now, desperate, he was the one who wished to die.
“Is what you say true? Is it possible?”