"Yes, to die, or to forget."
"You could then forget?" said Geneviève, the tears rushing from her heart to her eyes.
"Ah, no, no!" said Maurice, falling on his knees before her; "no, Geneviève, I may die, perhaps, but forget you, never, never!"
"And yet," replied Geneviève, with firmness, "that would be the best, Maurice; for this love is criminal."
"Have you said this to Monsieur Morand?" said Maurice, recalled to himself by her sudden frigidity of manner.
"Monsieur Morand is not a madman like yourself, and has never yet compelled me to indicate to him how he should conduct himself in the house of a friend."
"I wager," said Maurice, smiling ironically, "that if Dixmer dines out Morand is not absent. Ah, Geneviève, by this means you can always deter me from loving you; for while Morand is here, forever at your side, not quitting you even for a single moment," continued he, contemptuously, "I should not love you, or rather I should not confess that I loved you."
"And I," cried Geneviève, driven to extremity by this eternal suspicion, and seizing the young man's arm with a species of frenzy, "I swear solemnly—now, Maurice, mark me well, and let it be once for all—that Morand has never breathed to me a word of love, that he neither loves me nor ever will love me. I swear this on my honor; I swear this by the soul of my mother.
"Alas! alas!" said Maurice, "I wish I could believe you."