“I know it, my good Sidonie. But still I love her—I love her! But I am only a peasant and——”
“And what does that matter?”
“Oh, I do not know how to address her in language worthy of her or of my love. I can only stupidly say, I love her.”
“Ah,” said Sidonie, pathetically, “I should not ask for more.”
“You—you! Perhaps not. But, don’t you see, with her it is different. She is not a peasant by birth or education.”
Sidonie suffered keenly. Each word of Bruno’s stabbed her tender heart. She felt that she must leave him. She longed to be alone. And yet something held her rooted to the spot. All that Bruno had said in regard to Catherine was but kindred to the feeling the lame girl possessed for him.
“Oh,” continued Bruno, “could you but know what it is to love as I do! It is a fever which consumes one! It is torture! Catherine! Catherine! What would I not do for you? For you I would confront a hundred dangers; for you I would lay down my life; for you——”
“Be silent!” shouted Sidonie, beside herself.
“Who,” he went on, not heeding her command, “can compare with her in loveliness? Who is her equal? I would defend her against her husband! I could kill Firmin did I not know her indifference to him. If at this moment she were to say, ‘Lie at my feet until you die of love,’ I should eagerly obey.”
Unable at this moment to control herself, Sidonie seized his hands, and covering them with passionate kisses, exclaimed: “And I adore you—even as you adore her.”