"But, my dear girl, I said all that to him and he struck me in the face."
"He laid hands on you! He dared to strike you, and is still alive!"
"Why, you see, Françoise, you, no more than I, would consent to live after that. No, my love, he is still alive because, when I was about to smash his head against the wall, he taunted me with being afraid of his pistol. You see, yourself, that I must fight him."
"No, no; never. . . . The man is a murderer."
"We should have fought before now if we could have found any seconds. We had to postpone the meeting. He is taking everything on himself. Both of us will have the necessary seconds. And now go back to your father, and keep silent about the whole matter. I have an hour left in which to write to you—to write to you at great length."
"Why write to me? Why do you suddenly change your tone? Why do you again assume the coldness which has already caused me so much pain? You have but to say one word to me—the word which you have never yet said."
"It is to tell you why I have never said that word that I want to write to you."
"And afterwards you'll fight?"
"I shall fight."
"That means you don't love me, Didier. Alas, my love, you have never loved me. And yet you know that I have loved you from the first day that I saw you . . . and you have done nothing but make me weep."