"Is it really true that you love me?"
"Ah! my dear, how can you ask me that? What fresh proof do you want me to give you of my love?"
"Forgive me! that isn't what I meant. I only feared—for I am not agreeable every day—I dreaded that—that you might cease to love me."
"How ill you judge me! Do you take me for one of those women to whom love is a mere whim and never a real sentiment?"
"No, no, I don't think so; I was wrong; I am often unjust."
"You are afraid that I shall not always find you agreeable?—what nonsense! When you are with me, I am happy, and that is enough for me. Be thoughtful, abstracted—serious even! I see you and am with you; I ask nothing more. I say to myself: 'He is thinking about his work, about some new plot, perhaps. I mustn't disturb him. In a moment, he will come back to me; he will see that I am by his side.'"
"Ah! Nathalie! I love you so dearly! Do you know, it seems to me sometimes that I love you too much!"
"One never loves too much, my dear, when he inspires as much love as he gives. Believe me, you do not go ahead of me!"
And, on leaving her, Adhémar said to himself:
"Yes, she really loves me; for, if she doesn't, why should she pretend to? What motive has she to deceive me? She certainly is not guided by any selfish interest, for she refuses to receive the slightest present from me; she told me in the most positive terms that she would be seriously angry with me if I gave her anything but flowers!—'I have the wherewithal to satisfy all my tastes and fancies,' she said; 'I want nothing from you but love; the best gift from you would offend me, for I should say to myself that you thought it was necessary to make me love you!'—I had no choice but to obey her.—Upon my word, I believe I have found a woman who will not deceive me! it's a miracle!"