“I never have had real happiness except through you. Only these last days have been hard. . . . It was not your fault. . . . Ah, my poor Any, how sad life is! . . . and how hard it is to die!”
“Hush, Olivier, I implore you!”
He continued, without listening to her: “I should have been a happy man if you had not had your daughter. . . .”
“Hush! My God! Hush! . . .”
He seemed to dream rather than speak.
“Ah, he that invented this existence and made men was either blind or very wicked. . . .”
“Olivier, I entreat you . . . if you ever have loved me, be quiet, do not talk like that any more!”
He looked at her, leaning over him, she herself so pale that she looked as if she were dying, too; and he was silent.
Then she seated herself in the armchair, close to the bed, and again took the hand on the coverlet.
“Now I forbid you to speak,” said she. “Do not stir, and think of me as I think of you.”