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pleasure of making him happy. When he’d taken her in his arms, she had wondered if those dark and delicious workings of convalescence would be resolved in some rapture she’d never known. But when his arms released her, Pierre saw his wife’s still virgin eyes. And if Séverine felt a faint brush of disappointment, she forgot it immediately when she saw his haggard features recovering their vigor and tenderness.
    Now, in the early light, she was unable to distinguish his face clearly; but to reconstruct its noble lines all she needed was the mass of the head. Pierre was sleeping confidently, like a boy. Séverine was deeply moved. The two years they’d lived together passed through her mind like a rich and cherished flame. How easy Pierre had made them! Always considerate. And how humbly, too, this man, whose pride she knew, had worked to make her happy.
    The silence pervaded everything, leaving room only for gratitude and concern.
    Have I really been able to repay so much love? she asked herself. Have I tended his happiness well enough? He’s done so much for me and I’ve taken it all for granted, as my due.
    Remorse felt sweet. For someone to be so sensitive, there was a kind of virtuous exaltation in recognizing faults she desired to put right. For Séverine knew perfectly well both what she owed Pierre and how much power she had over him. A day ago she’d never have believed that her voice, her arms, could have brought peace so quickly to such a despairing heart.
    Now I know, thought Séverine. He depends on me like a child.
    She remembered that Pierre sometimes called her as his drug. She didn’t understand the dark shadows connoted by this word, and she didn’t like it, as she was repelled by anything that worked against the norm, against good health. She’d never been curious about her husband’s possible experiences before they’d met. What need had they of anything outside themselves? They had their love, their simplicity.
    Séverine thought of Pierre’s shining smile, she remembered his strong, frank hands. She had a moment of fear at the idea that this smile, this strength, were at her mercy.
    I could hurt him so much, she thought.
    No pride corrupted that anxiety. It was mixed only with the profound integrity of her love. Pierre was all she had in the world, she loved no one else.
    This assurance struck her so strongly, it rose from so deep within her, that she smiled at her fleeting fears. Whatever happened, Pierre would never suffer because of her. What a wonderful warmth she felt for that man, breathing beside her like a boy. Since all his joy and sorrow lay in her hands, she would see to it that his days were happy. Till the end of their twin existence. They’d never know a single doubt. Séverine realized she was the guardian of a proud flame but she felt so strong, so pure with love, that the high task seemed simple to her.
    Another woman might, at that moment, have been concerned about the dreams which followed her sickness,about the queer relationship that had been established, the night before, with Husson. But Séverine’s principally physical education, her usual good health and happy balance, her natural propensity for untroubled happiness, all discouraged her from introspection. She was concerned only with surface emotions, controlled only the most obvious aspects of herself. Since she imagined she was in full possession of her being, Séverine had no idea of the powers that lay dormant in her, and, as a result, no hold over them at all. Since these secret layers of her personality had so far supported wishes sanctioned by reason, her desires had invariably possessed a strength to which she acceded with a feeling of impatient inevitability.
    She could wait no longer to show Pierre the new depths of tenderness in which she moved. She kissed his forehead, a long kiss. Still trapped in that uncertain state between sleep and full consciousness in which the drifting body obeys its instincts,