But Françoise did not fall asleep.
She listened to his irregular breathing; she watched the painful slumber in which the man beside her lay. Resting on her elbow, she bent over the beloved face, distorted by strange dreams, with an ever-increasing anguish which wrung her heart and almost stifled her.
What frightful visions were passing before those closed eyes and the heaving chest? She had never watched her husband asleep. The sight was terrifying.
And then his face changed so that she did not recognize it, and she was appalled. Deep furrows, which she had never seen before, plowed his forehead and temples and the corners of his mouth. The face which, when it was in repose, was calm and dignified and kept under control by a strong, brave mind, was distorted as if the spirit of fear had taken possession of it at a moment when the sentinel was no longer on guard.
It was impossible for her to remain any further beside that tortured face which was unknown to her, and she wakened Didier so as to see once more the face as she knew it—the face of the man she had married.
Didier uttered a hollow groan and opened his haggard eyes. By the light of the night-lamp she watched him come to himself from his nightmare like a swimmer who rises to the surface of the waters and is able at last to breathe again.
"Didier . . . Didier . . . What's the matter? Don't you recognize me? It's I . . . Françoise."
Then his face unbent and his eyes were filled once more with the soft light which illumined them whenever his gaze fell upon her.
"I've had such an awful dream, dearest."
"Yes, it was awful. That's why I woke you up."