"You do not know; you ought to tell her that you love her."
"Do you think so?"
"Why, of course—try that, at any rate."
"Very well, then, Bijou, I love you with all my heart—but I know that there is no hope, and, unfortunate wretch that I am, I dare not even ask for any."
"You love me!" she exclaimed, in deep distress, and then, stopping short, she repeated: "you—Jean?"
"Yes, and what about you? you detest me, do you not?"
"Oh, Jean, how can you say such things? You know very well that I love you, though not in the way you want me to, or as I should like to be able to, but very much, all the same; indeed I do."
She put her hand on his shoulder, obliging him to stand still, and then passed her hand over his eyes.
"Oh, Jean," she exclaimed, in great grief, "tears, and all because of me! Oh, please, don't—no, indeed you must not; do you hear me, Jean?"
He took the little hand, which was stroking his face, and kissed it passionately. Then putting Bijou, who was clinging to him, gently aside, he left her abruptly, and strode off alone.