GOLAUD.
It is that, then, that makes you weep, my poor Mélisande?—It is only that, then?—You weep, not to see the sky?—Come, come, you are no longer at the age when one may weep for such things…. And then, is not the summer yonder? You will see the sky every day.—And then, next year…. Come, give me your hand; give me both your little hands. [He takes her hands.] Oh! oh! these little hands that I could crush like flowers….—Hold! where is the ring I gave you?