"Since you hate me enough to have thought of such a brutal vengeance," he cried, cruelly, savagely, "since you longed to make me jealous of him through you, enjoy your work.—Look at it.—You have succeeded."
"Spare me, spare me!" cried Ely. "Oh, God! do not talk like that!"
His sudden outburst, the strange betrayal of his feelings, even in her suffering, made her shudder. With a mingled feeling of indescribable terror and pity she had a glimpse into another secret recess in the heart of the tortured being who, during a half hour of mortal anguish, had insulted, humiliated, despised, then had understood, accepted, justified, pitied, and who now cursed her. She had felt, as she listened to Pierre's confidences on the subject of his friend, that a reflux of loathing sensuality still seethed in her former lover's heart. She saw it now. And she also saw that a deep, true passion had always lived, palpitated, germinated under his sensuality, under his hate. His passion had never developed, grown, put forth its blossom, because she had never been the woman he sought, the woman he yearned for, the woman he felt was in her. Thanks to the miracle worked by love for another, she had now become the woman he desired. What a martyrdom of suffering for the unhappy man! Forgetting her fears and inspired only by a movement of compassion, she said:—
"What! rejoice in your grief?—Think of my vengeance yet. Did you not feel how sincere I was, what shame I feel at ever having conceived such a hideous idea? Did you not see how bitterly I loathe, how I regret my life at Dome? Do you not feel that my heart bleeds at the sight of your suffering?"
"I am very grateful for your pity," interrupted Olivier.
His voice suddenly became dry and cold. Was he trying to recover his dignity? Was he wounded by her womanly pity, a pity that is humiliating when given in place of love? Was he afraid of saying too much, of feeling too deeply if the interview was prolonged?
"I beg your pardon for not having kept my nerves under better control.—There is nothing more to say. I promise you one thing: I will do everything in my power to keep Pierre from ever knowing. Don't thank me. I will keep silent on his account, on my own account, so as to preserve a friendship that has always been dear to me, that always will be dear. I did not come here to threaten you that I would disclose the past to him. I came to ask you to be silent, to not push your vengeance to its last extreme.—And now, as I bid you farewell forever, I still ask you that. You love Pierre, he loves you; promise me that you will never use his love against our friendship, to respect that feeling in his heart."
There was a supplicating humility in Olivier's voice. All the religious sentiment of his friendship, which Ely knew filled him, betrayed itself in his tone, sadly, almost solemnly! And with a solemn emotion she replied:—
"I promise you."
"Thank you again," he said, "and farewell."