“It cannot be. I have been wrong, very, very wrong to have even talked to you as I have—but at moments it was beyond my strength. I reproach myself, bitterly! David, mon ami,” she said suddenly, and her hand came out bravely and lay on mine. “I have more than I can bear, now. If you insist, I will tell you, but—it will break my heart to do so. I am going to ask you, once more. If you have the great heart I believe you have, my friend, my good loyal friend, if you do not want me to suffer more than I can bear to suffer, if I am to hold to my own respect, give me your promise never to see me again. Ask me no questions; trust me. Go your own way and let me go mine.”
Her hands had come together in supplication; her eyes had in them a terror of returning pain and their look hung in mortal distress on my decision. Her agitation communicated itself to me; confusion was in my eyes, and in my heart was a chill.
“Good God! What can I do, when you ask me like that?” I said helplessly. “I promise. It shall be as you wish. I—it—I promise.”
“Merci, oh, mon Dieu!”
I heard her cry like something far off; all the world had dropped away from me. She came close to me; perhaps my very helplessness disarmed her.
“David, I never meant to hurt you so. Believe me, what I do is for you—for you, first. Keep me as a memory of something beautiful in your life. Day and night I shall have you in my prayers—you and your happiness. That will come, David. You will forget what I was too weak to prevent.”
I bowed my head, incapable of speech.
“There is only one thing I ask, now,” I said at last. “Oh, it’s only a little thing, otherwise it would be too cruel: I ask only to be allowed to see you through the landing—just the last courtesies.”
“Yes, mon ami.”
I held out my hand abruptly, and she gave me both of hers. She was so close to me that for a moment we swayed against each other, parting and longing in our eyes so poignant that all the world seemed like a whirlpool drawing us down together.