"No, no, we don't need a light. It is better this way. Besides, I have so many preparations still to make; I must go."
They are both standing, ready for the parting; but André will not let her go until he has made her confess what the matter is, what tragic anxiety causes the wrinkles on that lovely face, in which the eyes—is it an effect of the twilight?—gleam with fierce brilliancy.
"Nothing—no, nothing, I promise you. Only the thought that I cannot share in your joys, your triumphs. But you know that I love you, you do not doubt your mother, do you? I have never passed a day without thinking of you. Do you do as much; keep a place in your heart for me. And now kiss me, and let me go at once. I have delayed too long."
A moment more and she will not have strength to do what she still has to do. She rushes toward the door.
"I say no, you shall not go. I have a feeling that some extraordinary thing is taking place in your life that you don't wish to tell me. You are in great sorrow, I am sure of it. That man has done some shameful thing to you."
"No, no; let me go, let me go."
But on the contrary, he holds her, holds her fast.
"Come, what is the matter? Tell me, tell me—"
Then, under his breath, in a low, loving voice, like a kiss:
"He has left you, has he not?"