"You admit that it is beautiful?" I said to her.
She shook her head; but at the same moment two tears fell slowly from her great eyes. She felt them rolling down her cheeks, made a gesture of annoyance, and then throwing herself suddenly on the granite cross, on the base of which she was standing, she embraced it with both hands, pressed her head close against the stone, and sobbed convulsively.
I did not think it right to say a word that might trouble the course of this sudden emotion, and I turned reverently away. After a moment, seeing her raise her forehead, and hastily replace her loosened hair, I came nearer.
"I am ashamed of myself," she murmured.
"You have more reason to rejoice. Believe me, you must give up trying to destroy the source of those tears; it is holy. Besides, you will never succeed."
"I must," said the girl desperately. "See, it is done! This weakness took me by surprise. I want to hate everything that is good and beautiful."
"In God's name, why?"
"Because I am beautiful, and I can never be loved."
Then, as a long-repressed torrent bursts its barriers at last, she continued, with extraordinary energy:
"It is true."