"I am happy."
"No, for you're crying. And your tears break my heart, Clotilde."
Yielding, in spite of herself, to the sound of his coaxing voice, she listened, greedy of hope and happiness. A smile softened her face, but, oh, so sad a smile! He entreated her:
"Don't be sad, Clotilde; you have no reason, you have no right to be sad."
She showed him her white, delicate, lissom hands, and said, gravely:
"As long as these hands are mine, Maxime, I shall be sad."
"But why?"
"They have taken life."
Maxime cried:
"Hush, you must not think of that! The past is dead; the past does not count."