“It was so simple,” he declared, using Raymonde’s words. “There was nothing to do but tell the truth.”
He pointed to the scattered sheets of a letter which he had not yet sealed. He had been compelled to write to Mlle. Simone de R—, he told me. Their engagement made at Rheims had been broken. He added:
“She too will understand, since it is the truth which I had no right to conceal from her, and which will broaden her. Should she suffer a little on my account, it is better so.”
His indifference, which for the moment shocked me, was after all like that of a surgeon recognising the necessity of an operation.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
He looked at me, somewhat astonished by my question, and I discovered at last on his face that transfiguration, by the like of which he himself had been dazzled at his wife’s deathbed. A divine phenomenon had taken place within him, a miracle of peace, a final choice: I can think of nothing but a theological term to express my whole thought: a state of grace. A monk who has taken eternal vows in the exaltation of firm assurance must wear on his countenance a similar reflection of his decision.
“Live,” he replied.
“Living” meant for him “accepting.”
A long silence followed, which he broke with these words, spoken more for himself than for me:
“There is no horror in the death of those we love if it serves to make us better. Do you not see that she was given to me for my improvement? Oh, God! That I should have taken so long to see it! Since yesterday I have drawn nearer to her; I am happy. She knew that nothing is finite, especially a love like hers.”