“Frankly, then, you really love me?”
“As much as it is possible to love, I think.”
“And that has lasted since—?”
“Since the day I saw you go into Susse’s, three years ago.”
“Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am I to do in return?”
“Love me a little,” I said, my heart beating so that I could hardly speak; for, in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which she had accompanied the whole conversation, it seemed to me that Marguerite began to share my agitation, and that the hour so long awaited was drawing near.
“Well, but the duke?”
“What duke?”
“My jealous old duke.”
“He will know nothing.”