ever know it, he would conquer himself, he would flee to the ends of the
earth should he ever feel the faintest cowardice. Rather than bring a
moment's pain to that brother who had striven to resuscitate him, who was
the artisan of the passion now consuming him, who had given him his whole
heart and all he had--he would condemn himself to perpetual torture. And
indeed, torture was coming back; for in losing Marie he could but sink
into the distress born of the consciousness of his nothingness. As he lay
in bed, unable to sleep, he already experienced a return of his
abominable torments--the negation of everything, the feeling that
everything was useless, that the world had no significance, and that life
was only worthy of being cursed and denied. And then the shudder born of
the thought of death returned to him. Ah! to die, to die without even
having lived!

The struggle was a frightful one. Until daybreak he sobbed in martyrdom.
Why had he taken off his cassock? He had done so at a word from Marie;
and now another word from her gave him the despairing idea of donning it
once more. One could not escape from so fast a prison. That black gown
still clung to his skin. He fancied that he had divested himself of it,
and yet it was still weighing on his shoulders, and his wisest course
would be to bury himself in it for ever. By donning it again he would at
least wear mourning for his manhood.

All at once, however, a fresh thought upset him. Why should he struggle
in that fashion? Marie did not love him. There had been nothing between
them to indicate that she cared for him otherwise than as a charming,
tender-hearted sister. It was Guillaume that she loved, no doubt. Then he
pressed his face to his pillow to stifle his sobs, and once more swore
that he would conquer himself and turn a smiling face upon their
happiness.