"_Arthur!_"

"Madame," he said, looking down, "I came here in utter desperation; I
meant----" he broke off.

"You meant to die by your own hand here in my house!"

"Not alone!" he said in a low voice.

"Not alone! My husband, perhaps----?"

"No, no," he cried in a choking voice. "Reassure yourself," he
continued, "I have quite given up my deadly purpose. As soon as I came
in, as soon as I saw you, I felt that I was strong enough to suffer in
silence, and to die alone."

Julie sprang up, and flung herself into his arms. Through her sobbing
he caught a few passionate words, "To know happiness, and then to die.
--Yes, let it be so."

All Julie's story was summed up in that cry from the depths; it was
the summons of nature and of love at which women without a religion
surrender. With the fierce energy of unhoped-for joy, Arthur caught
her up and carried her to the sofa; but in a moment she tore herself
from her lover's arms, looked at him with a fixed despairing gaze,
took his hand, snatched up a candle, and drew him into her room. When
they stood by the cot where Helene lay sleeping, she put the curtains
softly aside, shading the candle with her hand, lest the light should
dazzle the half-closed eyes beneath the transparent lids. Helene lay
smiling in her sleep, with her arms outstretched on the coverlet.