Shrugging her shoulders, she smiled sadly, replying, “If I were dead, it would end my misery. Should he ever know that you have been here, his jealousy would be so aroused that I believe he would carry his threat into effect.”
“Come, come, Mariette, you must not talk like that,” I exclaimed. “It grieves me to know of your unhappiness, to think that I am to blame.”
“Remember, I forgive you.”
“Yes, but try to bear up against it; do your duty to your husband, and thus compel him to treat you kindly.”
“I have tried to do so, Heaven knows,” she replied hoarsely, bursting into tears; “But everything is useless. Only death can release me.”
“Don’t talk so gloomily,” I urged, taking one of her cold hands in mine. “Although we can be naught to one another save friends, let me be yours. I am ready to do anything you command me.”
“You are kind, Théophile, very kind,” she replied bitterly, shaking her head; “but friendship is poor reparation for love.”
I thought of the years we had passed together at the time when years are so long and beautiful.
Finally I said to her—
“Tell me, what can I do for you?”