‘It is thanks to you that I have come to know myself. I have learnt that I am better than I thought.’
‘I have known that for a long time. That was why I began to love you.’
Nightingales trilled near by and the fresh leafage rustled, moved by a passing breeze.
He took her hand and kissed it, and tears came into his eyes.
She understood that he was thanking her for having said she loved him. He silently took a few steps up and down, and then approached her again and sat down.
‘You know... I have to tell you... I was not disinterested when I began to make love to you. I wanted to get into society; but later... how unimportant that became in comparison with you—when I got to know you. You are not angry with me for that?’
She did not reply but merely touched his hand. He understood that this meant: ‘No, I am not angry.’
‘You said...’ He hesitated. It seemed too bold to say. ‘You said that you began to love me. I believe it—but there is something that troubles you and checks your feeling. What is it?’
‘Yes—now or never!’ thought she. ‘He is bound to know of it anyway. But now he will not forsake me. Ah, if he should, it would be terrible!’ And she threw a loving glance at his tall, noble, powerful figure. She loved him now more than she had loved the Tsar, and apart from the Imperial dignity would not have preferred the Emperor to him.
‘Listen! I cannot deceive you. I have to tell you. You ask what it is? It is that I have loved before.’