All the bitterness of the past had mounted to his brain like fumes of alcohol.
He was scarcely conscious of his own words.
"But the day soon came," he continued, "when my foolish illusions were destroyed.

You could not be mine since you belonged to another.

I might have broken my compact! I thought of doing so, but had not the courage.
To see you, to hear your voice, to dwell beneath the same roof with you, was happiness.

I longed to see you happy and honored; I fought for the triumph of another, for him whom you had chosen----" A sob that had risen in his throat choked his utterance; he buried his face in his hands to hide his tears, and, for a moment, seemed completely overcome.
But he mastered his weakness after a little and in a firm voice, he said: "We must not linger over the past.

Time flies and the future is ominous." As he spoke, he went to the door and applied first his eye, then his ear to the opening, to see that there were no spies without.
No one was in the corridor; he could not hear a sound.
He came back to Marie-Anne's side, and tearing the sleeve of his jacket open with his teeth, he drew from it two letters, wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth.
"Here," he said, in a low voice, "is a man's life!" Marie-Anne knew nothing of Chanlouineau's promises and hopes, and bewildered by her distress, she did not at first understand.
"This," she exclaimed, "is a man's life!" "Hush, speak lower!" interrupted Chanlouineau.