Big, heavy tears were in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he spoke. Tears also sprang from Olivier's heart to his eyes at the sight. For a few moments they remained without speaking. This common suffering, after their long silence, brought their souls closer together again. The same impulse of pity had made Olivier release Pierre from his vow and had made Pierre refuse to be released. It was the same impulse of pity that brought tears to their eyes. Each pitied the other and each felt he was pitied. Their affection returned in all its strength, and their friendship moved them so deeply that once again love was conquered.
Pierre was the first to dry his eyes. With the same resolute tone as when he made his vow, he said: "I shall leave when you do, in two days, and it will not cause me a single pang. To remain here would be impossible. I will not do you that injustice. I will not be a traitor to our friendship."
"Ah, my dear boy," replied Olivier, "you give me a fresh lease of life. I would have left you without a single reproach, without a complaint. I was very sincere in my proposition, but it was too hard. I believe it would have killed me."
After this conversation they passed an afternoon and evening that were strangely quiet, almost happy. When the soul is ill, there are such moments of respite, just as when the body is diseased—moments of languid calm, when it appears as though one were brought to life again, still feeble and bruised, it is true.
This sensation of recovery, fragile and feeble though it might be, was increased in the two friends by the convalescence of Berthe. Olivier had contented her and brought about her recovery, by what charitable deceptions no one but he knew. But the young wife was much better and could walk about, devoting her attention to the many details of their approaching departure. She was so visibly happy to go away that a tiny trace of reserve seemed to melt away before her pleasure. She had suffered so much in these last few days, and the suffering had been sufficient to awake her feminine tact from its long sleep. She had made a resolution. It was to win her husband's love, and to merit it. Such efforts are touching to a man who can understand them, for they indicate such humility and so much devotion. It is so hard for a young wife, it is so opposed to her instincts of sentimental pride, to beg for a sentiment, to provoke it, to conquer. It is so hard to be loved because she loves, and not because she is loved.
Olivier had too much delicacy not to feel this shade of sentiment. He gave himself up to the peculiar impression which a man feels who suffers through a woman, when he receives from another the caresses of which his unhappy love has taught him the value. He smiled at Berthe as he had never previously smiled, and Pierre was even deceived by this semi-cheerfulness of his friend. Was it not in a certain sense his own work? Was it not the price of the sacrifice he had made when he had renewed his vow? It was one of those moments which often appear just before the event of some great crisis of which the deceitful calmness impresses our mind later, which astonishes us and makes us tremble when we look back. Nothing bears a more eloquent witness that life is but a dream, that we are simply the playthings of a superior power which urges us along the road we have to take, in which we can never see to-day what to-morrow will bring forth. Danger approaches and stands face to face with us. The masters of our destiny are by our side. They live and breathe without seeming to realize the work which is reserved for them. Is it hazard, fatality, providence? What lot does Fate reserve for us?
Corancez called on Friday. The friends were to leave Cannes on Sunday. On Saturday morning, about eleven o'clock, Hautefeuille was in his room packing some of his clothes, when a knock at the door startled him. Although he was firmly resolved to keep his word, he could not help hoping. Hoping for what? He could not have told himself. But an unconscious, irresistible intuition warned him that Ely would not let him go without trying to see him again. And yet she had not given any sign of life since he had returned her letter. She had not sent any one to see him, for Corancez had come without her knowledge. But the young man was in the state of nervous anxiety which presages and precedes any great event close at hand. And his voice trembled as he called out "Come in" to the unknown visitor who knocked at his door. He knew that this visitor, no matter who it was, came from Ely.
It was simply one of the hotel servants. He brought a letter. It had been delivered by a messenger who had gone away without waiting for a reply. Hautefeuille looked at the envelope without opening it. Was he going to read this letter? He knew it had been sent him by Madame de Carlsberg. The address was not written in her handwriting. Pierre cast about in his memory to find out where he had seen this nervous, uneven, almost timid-looking writing. All at once he remembered the anonymous note he had received after the evening spent at Monte Carlo. He had shown it to Ely, who had said, "It is from Louise." The letter he held in his hand also came from Madame Brion.
There was no longer any possible doubt. To open the envelope was to communicate with Ely, to seek to hear from her, to break his word, to betray his friend. Pierre felt all this, and, throwing the tempting letter from him, he remained for a long while his face buried in his hands. To do him justice, he did not try to excuse himself by any sophistry. "I ought not to read this letter," he thought. "I ought not to read it!" And then, after a few moments, after having locked the door like a robber preparing for his work, his face purple with shame, he suddenly tore the envelope open with trembling hand. A letter fell out, followed by a second envelope, sealed and unaddressed. If there had remained the least doubt in Pierre's mind as to the contents of this second envelope, Madame Brion's note would have dissipated it. It read as follows:—
"DEAR SIR—A few weeks ago you received a letter which begged you to leave Cannes, and not to bring a certain misfortune upon some one who was severely tried and who merited your regard. You did not listen to the advice contained in this letter from an unknown friend. The dreaded misfortune has now arrived, and the same friend begs you not to repulse the second appeal as you did the first. The person into whose life you have entered and taken up so large a place never hopes to recover the happiness of which she has been robbed. All that she asks is that you will not condemn her unheard. If you will search in your conscience, you will admit that she has the right to ask it. She has written you a letter which you will find enclosed in this one. Do not send it back, as you did her first, with a harshness that is not natural to you. If you ought not to read it, destroy it at once. But if you do, you will be very cruel to a being who has given you all that has remained in her that is sincere, noble, delicate, and true."