"You must also know that he is a Protestant."
She flung her book on the seat and, holding up her head, quivering all over at the protest:
"Do you imagine I have not thought it all over? I know all you can possibly say. I know that the people in the midst of whom we live in Alsace here, intolerant and narrow-minded as they are, will not hesitate to say what they think on the subject. Yes; they will make a fuss, they will blame me and pity me and try to make me give way. And you; are you not beginning the game? But I warn you that arguments are quite useless—all your arguments. I love him. It is not to be done, it is done. I have only one wish, and that is to know if you are on my side or against me. For I shall not alter my mind."
"Oh, my God! my God!" cried Jean, hiding his face in his hands.
"I never thought it could hurt you so much. I do not understand. Do you share their stupid hatred? Tell me. I am putting a strong control on my feelings that I may talk to you. Tell me then. Speak. You are paler than I am—I, whom this alone concerns."
She caught hold of his hands and uncovered his face. And Jean gazed at her strangely for a moment as do those whose look does not as yet correspond with their thoughts.
Then he said:
"You are mistaken; we are both concerned, Lucienne!"
"Why?"
"We are one against the other, because I, too, must tell you that I love—I love Odile Bastian!"