"Give me that sheet of paper," I said, in a voice of command.
She handed it to me, with a quick movement. After a brief pause, I continued:
"Why did you come to fetch it? My uncle told you of its existence, didn't he? And you . . . you were taking it to my uncle's murderers, so that they might have nothing more to fear and be the only persons to know the secret? . . . Speak, Bérangère, will you?"
I had raised my voice and was advancing towards her. She took another step back.
"You shan't move, do you hear? Stay where you are. Listen to me and answer me!"
She made no further attempt to move. Her eyes were filled with such distress that I adopted a calmer demeanour:
"Answer me," I said, very gently. "You know that, whatever you may have done, I am your friend, your indulgent friend, and that I mean to help you . . . and advise you. There are feelings which are proof against everything. Mine for you is of that sort. It is more than affection: you know it is, don't you, Bérangère? You know that I love you?"
Her lips quivered, she tried to speak, but could not. I repeated again and again:
"I love you! . . . I love you!"
And, each time, she shuddered, as though these words, which I spoke with infinite emotion, which I had never spoken so seriously or so sincerely, as if these words wounded her in the very depths of her soul. What a strange creature she was!