Sitting down beside her, gently, with gestures of pity, he made her lift her head and, with his eyes on hers, said:
“Listen to me. I swear that I will save your son: I swear it.... Your son shall not die, do you understand?... There is not a power on earth that can allow your son’s head to be touched as long as I am alive.”
“I believe you.... I trust your word.”
“Do. It is the word of a man who does not know defeat. I shall succeed. Only, I entreat you to make me an irrevocable promise.”
“What is that?”
“You must not see Daubrecq again.”
“I swear it.”
“You must put from your mind any idea, any fear, however obscure, of an understanding between yourself and him . . . of any sort of bargain....”
“I swear it.”
She looked at him with an expression of absolute security and reliance; and he, under her gaze, felt the joy of devotion and an ardent longing to restore that woman’s happiness, or, at least, to give her the peace and oblivion that heal the worst wounds: