His love was dormant, not lost: this might be a consolation, but the misfortune remained the same.
The continuance of such a state of things is explained by one word,--hope, the secret of all conjugal situations.

It so happened that whenever the poor woman reached a depth of despair which gave her courage to question her husband, she met with a few brief moments of happiness when she was able to feel that if Balthazar was indeed in the clutch of some devilish power, he was permitted, sometimes at least, to return to himself.

At such moments, when her heaven brightened, she was too eager to enjoy its happiness to trouble him with importunate questions: later, when she endeavored to speak to him, he would suddenly escape, leave her abruptly, or drop into the gulf of meditation from which no word of hers could drag him.
Before long the reaction of the moral upon the physical condition began its ravages,--at first imperceptibly, except to the eyes of a loving woman following the secret thought of a husband through all its manifestations.

Often she could scarcely restrain her tears when she saw him, after dinner, sink into an armchair by the corner of the fireplace, and remain there, gloomy and abstracted.

She noted with terror the slow changes which deteriorated that face, once, to her eyes, sublime through love: the life of the soul was retreating from it; the structure remained, but the spirit was gone.