And for the first minute, from habit, it seemed to him that he was to blame.

But in her eyes there was a tenderness that told him that she was far from reproaching him, that she loved him for her sufferings.

" If not I, who is to blame for it?" he thought unconsciously, seeking someone responsible for this suffering for him to punish; but there was no one responsible.

She was suffering, complaining, and triumphing in her sufferings, and rejoicing in them, and loving them.

He saw that something sublime was being accomplished in her soul, but what? He could not make it out.