Paul felt himself overcome once more by that profound pity, by that sympathetic tenderness toward her which had previously taken possession of him on the edge of the crater of La Nugère.
He did not know what to say to this afflicted young creature. He felt a longing, a paternal and passionate longing to take her in his arms, to embrace her, to find sweet and consoling words with which to soothe her. But what words?
She looked about on every side, searched the branches with wild glances, listening to the faintest sounds, murmuring: "I think that they are here—No, there—Do you hear nothing?"
"No, Mademoiselle, I don't hear anything. The best thing we can do is to wait here."
"Oh! heavens, no. We must find them!"
He hesitated for a few seconds, and then said to her in a low tone: "This, then, causes you much pain?"
She raised toward his her eyes, in which there was a look of wild alarm, while the gathering tears filled them with a transparent watery mist, as yet held back by the lids, over which drooped the long, brown lashes. She strove to speak, but could not, and did not venture to open her lips. But her heart swollen, choked with grief, was yearning to pour itself out.
He went on: "So then you loved him very much. He is not worthy of your love. Take heart!"
She could not restrain herself any longer, and hiding with her hands the tears that now gushed forth from her eyes, she sobbed: "No!—no!—I do not love him—he—it is too base to have acted as he did. He made a tool of me—it is too base—too cowardly—but, all the same, it does pain me—a great deal—for it is hard—very hard—oh! yes. But what grieves me most is that my sister—my sister does not care for me any longer—she who has been even more wicked than he was! I feel that she no longer cares for me—not a bit—that she hates me—I have only her—I have no one else—and I, I have done nothing!"
He only saw her ear and her neck with its young flesh sinking into the collar of her dress under the light material she wore till it was lost in the curves of her bust. And he felt himself overpowered with compassion, with sympathy, carried away by that impetuous desire of self-devotion which got the better of him every time that a woman touched his heart. And that heart of his, responsive to outbursts of enthusiasm, was excited by this innocent sorrow, agitating, ingenuous, and cruelly charming.