Then his native nobility recoiled before the baseness of such a degrading inquisition. He became silent and began to walk up and down the room, the living scene of a struggle which his friend watched in mortal anguish. The questions that he had just put brought Ely present before him with a too cruel vividness. They had reanimated the sentiments Olivier's manly and apologizing appeal had exorcised a few minutes before. Love, despising, disabused, vilified, and cruel, but still love, struggled with friendship in his aching heart. Suddenly the young man stopped. He stamped upon the floor, shaking his clinched fist at the same time. He uttered a single "Ah!" full of repulsion, of disgust, and of deliverance, and then, looking straight into his friend's eyes, he said:—
"Olivier, give me your word of honor that you will not see this woman again, that you will not receive her if she comes to see you, that you will not answer if she writes to you, that you will never ask after her no matter what may happen, never, never, never."
"I give you my word of honor," said Olivier.
"And I," said Hautefeuille, with a deep sigh that betrayed both despair and relief, "I give you my word of honor to do the same, that I will never see her again, that I will never write to her.—There is not room for you and her in my heart. I feel it now, and I cannot lose you."
"Thank God!" said Olivier, taking his friend's hand. An inexpressible emotion overcame him, a mixed feeling of joy, of gratitude, and of terror—joy because of their beloved friendship, gratitude for the delicacy which had made Pierre save him the pangs of the most horrible jealousy, terror of the terrible agony imprinted upon his friend's face as he made his vow of self-sacrifice.
Hautefeuille seemed eager to escape from the room where such a terrible scene had taken place, and opened the door.
"You have a patient upstairs," he said. "You ought to be near her. She must get better quickly so that we can go away, to-morrow if possible, but the next day at the very latest.—I will come with you and will await you in the salon."
The two friends had hardly stepped into the corridor when they were met by a servant of the hotel. The man had a letter upon a tray, which he held out to Pierre, saying:—
"The bearer is waiting for a reply, Monsieur Hautefeuille."
Hautefeuille took the letter and looked at the superscription. Then, without opening it, he handed it to Olivier, who recognized Ely's bold handwriting. He returned the letter to Pierre and asked:—