“Oh, my dear,” she said; “you are weeping, as on the night of our marriage at the Sleeping Woods,—do you remember?”
She told me that I wept, and, as on that occasion, she added:
“But it is so simple.”
I did not understand at once what she meant by it. Then I feared to understand it, and interpreted it in my own way.
“Yes, is it not? It is so simple for us to love each other.”
She looked at me for a long time, surprised, and repeated:
“For us to love?”
And then no doubt she inwardly reproached herself for evading the truth, at a time when truth was appearing plain to us, for she replied, in a calm voice:
“Why do you not tell me that I must die?”
I rose quickly. “Oh, Raymonde, I beg of you, do not say that.”