"Oh, you do not know! you cannot know!" he groaned, reseating himself and taking his head between his hands. "It is too horrible! horrible!"
"Why, monsieur! What is it? Are you, then, hurt within? Say! Do you suffer? How foolish I have been! I should have brought a doctor!"
She was kneeling in front of him in her genuine alarm. "Where is it, Monsieur Jean? Where is the pain? Tell me! Tell me, then, monsieur!"
"No! no! it is not that, my child! It is here! here! here!" He struck his breast at every word, and bowed his head with abject grief.
She was silent, thinking only of his hapless love. There was no word for that!
"Ah! if it were only that! If it had been me instead of him!"
"Monsieur! My poor Monsieur Jean! You must not give way thus!"
"I am not fit to sit at the table with you, mademoiselle! My hands are red with blood! Do not touch them! Understand? Red!"
"But you are crazy, monsieur!"
"No! I am—I am simply a murderer! Do you hear? A MURDERER!"