“Is it you?”
The little lamp shed only a tiny light. Scarcely did I distinguish her eyes which gazed at me fixedly. I did not say a word in reply. A sacred emotion overcame me. I turned to the nurse and told her to get some sleep in the next room, which had been prepared for her. She objected that Madame was depressed, although she had no fever.
“I shall remain with her myself,” I replied.
She showed me the medicines which had been prepared, and left the room. When the door closed, I went to Raymonde’s bedside, knelt, and resting my forehead on her hand which I had taken, softly uttered the necessary word, the first I had to say:
“Forgive me.”
Her hand withdrew from mine, and placed itself on my head, and I understood without Raymonde’s saying so, that I was forgiven. But could it be done so quickly? The work which was being accomplished within me did not permit me to renounce so easily the chance to describe the scene of my conversion. I wished her to know its whole extent, and I began:
“Listen—”
With an authority unexpected from one so weak, she broke off my confidences.
“I do not wish to hear,” she said.
Completely overcome by her grace, I wished at least to cry out my love for her. I went on stammering, when I saw her raise herself and put her face close to mine.