All that Gilberte could say was to repeat with a sort of terror, instinct with regret and pain:
"No, no! you must not love me!"
"That means that you hate me then!" rejoined Emile; and Gilberte turned her face away, for she had not the courage to lie. "Very well," he continued; "if you do not love me, what harm does it do for you to know that I love you? Let me tell you so, since I can conceal it no longer. It is a matter of indifference to you, and one does not fear what one despises. Know that it is true then, and if I leave you, if I am to see you no more, at all events understand why it is: it is because I am dying for love of you, because I cannot sleep or work, because I am losing my wits and shall soon find myself telling your father what I am telling you now. I would rather be driven away by you than by the others. So drive me away; but you shall hear me now, because my secret is suffocating me; I love you, Gilberte, I love you so that it is killing me!"—And Emile's heart was so full that it overflowed in sobs.
Gilberte attempted to leave him; but she sat down only a few feet away and began to weep. There was more joy than bitterness behind those tears. So that Emile soon went to her to comfort her and was soon comforted in his turn; for there was naught but affection and regret in the terror that she felt.
"I am a poor girl," she said, "you are rich and your father, they say, thinks of nothing but increasing his fortune. You cannot marry me, and I ought not to think of marrying in my position. It would be by mere chance if I should fall in with a man as poor as myself, who had received a little education; and I have never counted on that chance. I said to myself long ago that I must make the best of my lot, in order to accustom myself to a sense of true dignity, which consists in not envying others and in forming oneself to simple tastes and honorable employment. So I do not think of marriage at all, since it would probably be necessary to change my way of thinking in order to find a husband. I must tell you that Janille got an idea into her head several days ago that troubles me a great deal. She wants my father to seek a husband for me. Seek a husband! Isn't that shameful and humiliating? Can you imagine anything more repulsive? And yet the dear old soul cannot understand my objection, and as my father was going to Argenton to receive the quarterly payment of his small pension, she suddenly decided this morning that he must take me and introduce me to some of his acquaintances. We can't resist Janille, so we started; but my father, thank heaven! doesn't know how to find husbands, and I shall be so cunning about helping him not to think of it, that this little excursion will result in nothing. You see, Monsieur Emile, that you mustn't pay your court to a girl who has no illusions and who has made up her mind, without regret or shame, to remain unmarried. I supposed that you would understand this, and that your friendly sentiments would prevent you from seeking to ruffle my quiet life. So forget this folly which has passed through your mind, and look upon me simply as a sister, who will forget what you have said, if you promise to love her with a calm and brotherly love. Why should we part? it would be a great sorrow to my father and me!"
"It would be a great sorrow to you, Gilberte?" said Emile; "why is it that you weep when you say such cold words to me? Either I do not understand you, or you are concealing something from me. And do you want me to tell you what I think that I divine? that you have not enough esteem for me to listen to me with confidence. You take me for a young madman, who prates of love without religion or conscience, and you think that you can treat me like a child to whom you would say: 'I forgive you, don't do it again.' But, if you believe that a genuine, serious passion can be allayed by a few cold words, you are a child yourself, Gilberte, and you have no feeling at all for me in the depths of your heart. O my God, can it be possible? and do those eyes that avoid mine, that hand that spurns me, mean contempt or incredulity?"
"Haven't I said enough? Do you think that I can consent to love you, with the certainty that you will belong to another sooner or later? It seems to me that love means living together forever: that is why, when I renounced the thought of marriage, I had to renounce the thought of love."
"I understand it so, too, Gilberte: love means living together forever! To my mind not even death can put an end to it; did I not say all that to you when I told you that I loved you? Ah! cruel Gilberte, you failed to understand me, or else you do not choose to understand me; but if you loved me you would not doubt. You would not tell me that you are poor, you would forget all about it as I do."
"O mon Dieu! I do not doubt you, Emile; I know that you are as incapable as myself of being guided by self-interest. But I ask you again, are we stronger than destiny, than your father's will, for instance?"
"Yes, Gilberte, yes, stronger than the whole world, if—we love each other."