“‘There will be only five of us,’ she said, ‘you and Monsieur Jean, my sister, my brother-in-law, and myself.’
“And then she added, laughing, ‘Quite a family party.’
“With these words she went, she almost ran away. Quite a family party! Do you know what I think, Jean? Do you know?”
“You must not think that, you must not.”
“Jean, I believe that she loves you.”
“And I believe it, too.”
“You, too!”
“When I left her, three weeks ago, she was so agitated, so moved! She saw me sad and unhappy, she would not let me go. It was at the door of the castle. I was obliged to tear myself, yes, literally tear myself away. I should have spoken, burst out, told her all. After I had gone a few steps, I stopped and turned. She could no longer see me, I was lost in the darkness; but I could see her. She stood there motionless, her shoulders and arms bare, in the rain, her eyes fixed on the way by which I had gone. Perhaps I am mad to think that. Perhaps it was only a feeling of pity. But no, it was something more than pity, for do you know what she did the next morning? She came at five o’clock, in the most frightful weather, to see me pass with the regiment—and then—the way she bade me adieu—oh, my friend, my dear old friend!”
“But then,” said the poor Cure, completely bewildered, completely at a loss, “but then, I do not understand you at all. If you love her, Jean, and if she loves you?”
“But that is, above all, the reason why I must go. If it were only I, if I were certain that she has not perceived my love, certain that she has not been touched by it, I would stay, I would stay—for nothing but for the sweet joy of seeing her, and I would love her from afar, without any hope, for nothing but the happiness of loving her. But no, she has understood too well, and far from discouraging me—that is what forces me to go.”