And again Marie's words recurred to him: "Another six weeks!" Yes, in six weeks his brother would marry the young woman.

This thought was like a stab in Pierre's heart.

Still, he did not for one moment hesitate: if he must die of his love, he would die of it, but none should 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.