“You are right,” she said.
Raoul uttered a deep sigh, as he exclaimed, “And you love without being able to forget?”
“I love without a wish to forget; without a wish ever to love any one else,” replied La Valliere.
“Very well,” said Raoul. “You have said to me, in fact, all you had to say; all I could possibly wish to know. And now, mademoiselle, it is I who ask your forgiveness, for it is I who have almost been an obstacle in your life; I, too, who have been wrong, for, in deceiving myself, I helped to deceive you.”
“Oh!” said La Valliere, “I do not ask you so much as that, Raoul.”
“I only am to blame, mademoiselle,” continued Raoul, “better informed than yourself of the difficulties of this life, I should have enlightened you. I ought not to have relied upon uncertainty; I ought to have extracted an answer from your heart, whilst I hardly even sought an acknowledgement from your lips. Once more, mademoiselle, it is I who ask your forgiveness.”
“Impossible, impossible!” she cried, “you are mocking me.”
“How, impossible?”
“Yes, it is impossible to be so good, and kind, ah! perfect to such a degree as that.”
“Take care!” said Raoul, with a bitter smile, “for presently you may say perhaps I did not love you.”