But the flame in the dying fire had flickered out: so too had the rosy light in her face. And her dear tired face wore only its usual expression of kindness and resignation.
* * * * *
"My wife has betrayed me."
Olivier was crushed by the weight of that idea. In vain did Christophe try affectionately to shake him out of his torpor.
"What would you?" he said. "The treachery of a friend is an everyday evil like illness, or poverty, or fighting the fools. We have to be armed against it. It is a poor sort of man that cannot bear up against it."
"That's just what I am. I'm not proud of it … a poor sort of man: yes: a man who needs tenderness, and dies if it is taken from him."
"Your life is not finished: there are other people to love."
"I can't believe in any one. There are none who can be friends."
"Olivier!"
"I beg your pardon. I don't doubt you, although there are moments when I doubt everybody—myself included…. But you are strong: you don't need anybody: you can do without me."