“Who do you mean?”
“I can not tell you.”
“Then you are lying to me.”
Marguerite rose and went toward the door. I could not behold this silent and expressive sorrow without being touched, when I compared in my mind this pale and weeping woman with the madcap who had made fun of me at the Opera Comique.
“You shall not go,” I said, putting myself in front of the door.
“Why?”
“Because, in spite of what you have done to me, I love you always, and I want you to stay here.”
“To turn me out to-morrow? No; it is impossible. Our destinies are separate; do not try to reunite them. You will despise me perhaps, while now you can only hate me.”
“No, Marguerite,” I cried, feeling all my love and all my desire reawaken at the contact of this woman. “No, I will forget everything, and we will be happy as we promised one another that we would be.”
Marguerite shook her head doubtfully, and said: