“You know what we go into,” he said: “perhaps death—perhaps hideous corruption.”
She smiled bravely.
“There is no need that a nun should be—desirable.”
“You are not afraid?”
“No.”
“Ah—I saw a man once—who had been a soldier—disfigured.”
“I know. I have seen them. I hope it may be me, not you. Ring, Monsieur.”
“One moment. We are set apart from the world, you and I, Clémence. We have met many times, very strangely. I think this is going to be the last time.”
“The last time,” she echoed. “And you—are afraid?”
“Afraid that I may miss death, and live—useless. Afraid of—her—afterwards; afraid—of fear.” He smiled grandly as he spoke.