"I would not do it," continued Joyeuse; "no, no, I refused all, to come and pray at this door with clasped hands—a door which never yet opened to me."
"M. le Comte, you have indeed a noble heart, and worthy to be loved."
"Well, then, he whom you call worthy, to what do you condemn him? Every morning my page brings a letter; it is refused. Every evening I knock myself at the door, and I am disregarded. You let me suffer, despair, die in the street, without having the compassion for me that you would have for a dog that howled. Ah! this woman has no woman's heart, she does not love me. Well! one can no more tell one's heart to love than not to love. But you may pity the unfortunate who suffers, and give him a word of consolation—reach out your hand to save him from falling; but no, this woman cares not for my sufferings. Why does she not kill me, either with a refusal from her mouth, or some blow from a poniard? Dead, I should suffer no more."
"M. le Comte," replied the man, "the lady whom you accuse is, believe me, far from having the hard, insensible heart you think; she has seen you, and understood what you suffer, and feels for you the warmest sympathy."
"Oh! compassion, compassion!" cried the young man; "but may that heart of which you boast some day know love—love such as I feel, and may they offer her compassion in exchange; I shall be well avenged."
"M. le Comte, not to reply to love is no reason for never having loved. This woman has perhaps felt the passion more than ever you will—has perhaps loved as you can never love."
"When one loves like that, one loves forever," cried Henri, raising his eyes to heaven.
"Did I tell you that she loved no more?"
Henri uttered a doleful cry.
"She loves!" cried he. "Ah! mon Dieu!"