When Marteau was dead the Countess would presumably return to a saner frame of mind, and forget the mad attachment, if indeed she had entertained it.
He took a certain melancholy satisfaction in the hope that he would at least become one of her sacred and cherished memories.

But no memory can successfully dispute the claim of the living, as a rule.

She would eventually marry this Englishman; he would make her a good husband, and by and by she would be happy, and Marteau would not be there to see.
And for that he would be glad.
If the Emperor had been there, if the war god had come and summoned his men to arms again, Marteau might have eased the fever in his brain and soul by deeds of prowess on fields of battle, but in peace he should only eat his heart out thinking of her in the other man's arms.

There were things worse than death, and this was one.

On the whole, he concluded it was just as well, or even better, that he should die.
He was sufficiently versed in military and even civil law to see that his condemnation was irregular in the extreme, but he let it go.