He understood at once, and he turned very pale.
“Clotilde give me no answer now, I beg of you; take more time, if you wish to reflect further.”
“It is useless, my dear friend, my decision is made.”
She looked at him with her fine, loyal look. She had not released his hands, in order that he might know that she was not excited, and that she was his friend. And it was he who resumed, in a low voice:
“Then you say no?”
“I say no, and I assure you that it pains me greatly to say it. Ask me nothing; you will no doubt know later on.”
He sat down, crushed by the emotion which he repressed like a strong and self-contained man, whose mental balance the greatest sufferings cannot disturb. Never before had any grief agitated him like this. He remained mute, while she, standing, continued:
“And above all, my friend, do not believe that I have played the coquette with you. If I have allowed you to hope, if I have made you wait so long for my answer, it was because I did not in very truth see clearly myself. You cannot imagine through what a crisis I have just passed—a veritable tempest of emotions, surrounded by darkness from out of which I have but just found my way.”
He spoke at last.
“Since it is your wish, I will ask you nothing. Besides, it is sufficient for you to answer one question. You do not love me, Clotilde?”