"Yes," said Sylvie, hugging her, "that's why I love you! That heart of yours is a powerful affair!"
They were ready to go in again. The roofs of the hotel were gleaming under the moonlight. Sylvie slipped her arm around Annette's neck and whispered in her ear with an intensity and a seriousness she herself did not realize:
"My darling! I shall never forget what you have suffered to-night . . . what you have suffered because of me. . . . Yes, yes, don't say no! I had time to think of it while I was running in search of you, trembling that some misfortune . . . If it had happened! . . . Oh! what would I have done! . . . I should have never come back."
"Darling," exclaimed Annette, deeply moved, "it was not your fault, you couldn't know how you were hurting me."
"I knew perfectly well. I knew that I was making you suffer, and it—listen, Annette!—it even gave me pleasure!"
Annette's heart contracted; and a short while ago she too had thought that she would like to make Sylvie suffer until the blood ran. She said so. They clasped each other in their arms.
"But what's the matter with us? What are we?" they asked each other, shamefaced and stricken, yet relieved to know that the other's feelings had been the same. . . .
"It was love," said Sylvie.
"Love," Annette repeated mechanically. Then she went on, frightened:
"That is love?"