A spasm shot through him, as if he were about to make an effort to protest against the word, but he no longer had the power. The life that he had been leading for the last two months had been nothing but a vain struggle against self-reproach and repentance. Hence the wrecking of his whole character. He got up, and in silence paced with unsteady steps the rosy, dimly lighted boudoir. Then he came close to her and leant against the edge of her chair.
She looked up at him with plaintive eyes; then, sighing deeply, pressed her face against his arm.
He would have drawn back, but he did not wish her to see that he thought this contact less harmless than she did.
"Leo, I suffer unspeakable agony," she whispered.
He drew his arm away from her abruptly, and sat down opposite her.
"So all the happiness you are giving Ulrich," he asked, "is nothing but a delusion and a sham?"
"Do you expect me to make it a reality?"
"I expect nothing. I only wish--I ..." He could not go on. His thoughts moved tardily, clumsily. He only knew that her astonished, resentful question had not displeased him so much as it ought to have done.
"The promise I made you," she continued, "I have honestly kept to the best of my ability. I have tried to be a good housewife, worthy of him, a wife of whom he need not be ashamed. But the penance I have imposed on myself is terrible. I suffer tortures that no man can have any idea of."
"And do you imagine that I am lying on a bed of roses?" he responded.