Maurice mistook the meaning of these words; he recoiled a step, and looked sadly at the young woman.
"Geneviève," said he, "you do not love me."
Geneviève regarded him with tearful eyes; then turning from him, leaned her head on the pillow of the sofa, and gave free vent to her sobs and tears.
"Alas!" said Maurice, "it is evident that you no longer love me; and not only that you love me no more, Geneviève, but that you must entertain a feeling of hatred toward me, to experience this despair."
Maurice had spoken so nobly, yet with so much feeling, that Geneviève arose and took his hand.
"Mon Dieu!" said she, "and is it ever thus that those we think the best prove merely egotists?"
"Egotists, Geneviève! what do you mean?"
"Can you not then imagine what I suffer? My husband a fugitive, my brother proscribed, our house in flames, and all this in one night; and then that dreadful scene between you and the Chevalier was added to the rest!"
Maurice listened with delight, for it was impossible even for the maddest passion not to admit that this accumulation of trouble was more than sufficient excuse for Geneviève's deep and violent grief.