“Love, true love, disregards morals, tramples upon suffering, takes no account of anything outside of itself. That has its beauty, don’t you think so?”
“That is not loving,” she murmured.
I continued my panegyric.
“Love, true love, in its splendid violence, does not stop at a fault, or even a crime.”
“That isn’t loving,” she repeated.
“What then does love mean, according to your idea?” I demanded, surprised at her resistance.
“According to my idea? Oh, I don’t know. Don’t ask me that.”
“Yes, you must acquire the habit of being able to express what you feel, Raymonde. That is the whole art of conversation.”
She hesitated: I saw her lips open and tremble a little. She shook her head, and then suddenly made up her mind:
“Do you remember going into a little chapel one evening?”