She stopped, not daring to go on. But I read her meaning in her eyes.
“Raymonde,” I answered in despair, “why do you speak to me like that? You do not know, you never will know, that my love is now equal to yours.”
She bowed her head as if she had been caught in wrong-doing.
“I cannot believe it, dear.” And then in a whisper: “That would be so wonderful.”
She had thought to charge me with our daughter’s future, thinking of the time when I should be her sole protector, when I might perhaps be led to betray my tender memories. And in my powerlessness to convince her, I knelt before her, insisting with all my power.
“You must believe me, Raymonde.”
She laid her hand on my head.
“Yes,” she said, “I believe you.”
And she smiled ... It was the last time.
* * *