"So you know?"
"Yes; and I tell you frankly, I have read your diary. I know your love for me . . . and I accept it." She gave a sad smile. "That poor love which you offered to the woman who was absent . . . and which you are now offering to the woman who is about to die."
"No, no," he said, eagerly, "don't believe that . . . . Salvation may be near at hand . . . . I feel it. My love does not belong to the past but to the future."
He stooped to put his lips to her hands.
"Kiss me," she said, offering him her forehead.
Each of them had been obliged to place one foot on the brink of the precipice, on the straight edge of granite which ran parallel with the fourth side of the spring-board.
They kissed gravely.
"Hold me firmly," said Véronique.
She leant back as far as she could, raising her head, and called in a muffled voice:
"François . . . . François . . . ."