She was silent. The painful story had exhausted her. Her face retained an expression of bewilderment and fright.
"My poor Bérangère," I said, "I have done you a great wrong. I have often, far too often, accused you in my heart, without guessing what a wonderful, plucky creature you were."
"You could not be expected to understand me."
"Why not?"
"I am Massignac's daughter."
"No more of that!" I cried. "You are the one who always sacrificed herself and who always took the risk. And you are also the girl I love, Bérangère, the girl who gave me all her life and all her soul in a kiss. Remember Bérangère . . . the other day in the Yard, when I found you again and when the sight of all those visions of love threw you in my arms. . . ."
"I have forgotten nothing," she said, "and I never shall forget."
"Then you consent?"
Once again she repeated: