Atlas Shrugged [71]
They sat in silence, listening to the statement of rebellion-the anthem of the triumph of the great victims who would refuse to accept pain. Francisco listened, looking out at the city.
Without transition or warning, he asked, his voice oddly unstressed, "Dagny, what would you say if I asked you to leave Taggart Transcontinental and let it go to hell, as it will when your brother takes over?"
"What would I say if you asked me to consider the idea of committing suicide?" she answered angrily.
He remained silent.
"Why did you say that?" she snapped. "I didn't think you'd joke about it. It's not like you."
There was no touch of humor in his face. He answered quietly, gravely, "No. Of course. I shouldn't."
She brought herself to question him about his work. He answered the questions; he volunteered nothing. She repeated to him the comments of the industrialists about the brilliant prospects of d'Anconia Copper under his management. "That's true," he said, his voice lifeless.
In sudden anxiety, not knowing what prompted her, she asked, "Francisco, why did you come to New York?"
He answered slowly, "To see a friend who called for me,"
"Business?"
Looking past her, as if answering a thought of his own, a faint smile of bitter amusement on his face, but his voice strangely soft and sad, he answered: "Yes."
It was long past midnight when she awakened in bed by his side.
No sounds came from the city below. The stillness of the room made life seem suspended for a while. Relaxed in happiness and in complete exhaustion, she turned lazily to glance at him. He lay on his back, half propped by a pillow. She saw his profile against the foggy glow of the night sky in the window. He was awake, his eyes were open. He held his mouth closed like a man lying in resignation in unbearable pain, bearing it, making no attempt to hide it.
She was too frightened to move. He felt her glance and turned to her.
He shuddered suddenly, he threw off the blanket, he looked at her naked body, then he fell forward and buried his face between her breasts. He held her shoulders, hanging onto her convulsively. She heard the words, muffled, his mouth pressed to her skin: "I can't give it up! I can't!"
"What?" she whispered.
"You."
"Why should-"
"And everything."
"Why should you give it up?"
"Dagny! Help me to remain. To refuse. Even though he's right!"
She asked evenly, 'To refuse what, Francisco?"
He did not answer, only pressed his face harder against her.
She lay very still, conscious of nothing but a supreme need of caution.
His head on her breast, her hand caressing his hair gently, steadily, she lay looking up at the ceiling of the room, at the sculptured garlands faintly visible in the darkness, and she waited, numb with terror.
He moaned, "It's right, but it's so hard to do! Oh God, it's so hard!"
After a while, he raised his head. He sat up. He had stopped trembling.
"What is it, Francisco?"
"I can't tell you." His voice was simple, open, without attempt to disguise suffering, but it was a voice that obeyed him now. "You're not ready to hear it."
"I want to help you."
"You can't."
"You said, to help you refuse."
"I can't refuse."
"Then let me share it with you."
He shook his head.
He sat looking down at her, as if weighing a question. Then he shook his head again, in answer to himself.
"If I'm not sure I can stand it," he said, and the strange new note in his voice was tenderness, "how could you?"
She said slowly, with effort, trying to keep herself from screaming, "Francisco, I have to know."
"Will you forgive me? I know you're frightened, and it's cruel. But will you do this for me-will you let it go, just let it go, and don't ask me anything?"
"I_"
"That's all you can do for me. Will you?"
"Yes, Francisco."
"Don't be afraid for me. It was just this once. It won't happen to me again. It will become much easier . . . later."
"If I could-"
"No. Go to sleep, dearest,"
It was the first time he had ever used that word.
In the morning,