“What then? Are you sick?”
“Yes, yes, sick of everysing. I waken you up because you talk in your sleep.”
“Do I? Seems to me you needn’t waken me up just for that. What was I saying?”
“Saying? You talk all the time about her.”
“Her? Who?”
“Oh, do not try to deceive me any more. I know all.”
“You know more than I do,” I said, astonished. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, do I not know you have a maîtresse? Do I not know you go to see her every day? Do I not know you are spending all your money with her? For two weeks have I borne it, seeing you go every day to keep your shameful assignations with her. Though it was almost driving me mad I have said no word. Hoping that you would tire of her, that you would come back to me, I have tried to bear it patiently. Oh, I have borne so much! But when it comes to lying by your side, and hearing you cry out and murmur expressions of love for her, I can bear it no longer. Please excuse me for waking you, but you torture me so.”
I stared. This was an Anastasia altogether new to me. Her voice had a strange note of despair. Where had I heard it before? Ah! that night on the Embankment, when she was such a hunted, desperate thing. Never had I heard it since. Yet I knew the primal passion which lies deep in every woman had awakened. I was silent, and no doubt my silence seemed like guilt. But the fact was—her accusation had been launched in tumultuous French, and I was innocently trying to translate it into English.
“What was I saying?” I said at last.