Again he was silent. She mechanically, to overcome the trembling of her hands, pulled at the fringe of the tablecloth. She tried to reflect, to understand. And always, always, she had the same feeling, the same idea, and she could not help trying to express it in words: "You don't love me enough." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, concentrating her whole soul in her voice and in her gaze.
"It is true, I don't love you enough," he answered.
She made no sound: she was cut to the heart. The little sitting-room, the inn, Pompeii, the whole world appeared to go whirling round her dizzily. She had a feeling as if her temples would burst open, and pressed her hands to them instinctively.
"Ah, then," she said, after a long pause, in a broken voice—"ah, then, you have deceived me?"
"I have deceived you," he murmured humbly.
"You haven't loved me?"
"Not enough to forget everything else. I have already said so."
"I understand. What was the use of lying?"
"Because you were beautiful and good, and you loved me, and I didn't see this danger. I didn't dream that you would wish to give up everything in this way, that I should be unable to prevent you——"
"Words, words. The essential is, you don't love me."