His heart grew big.
"You have suffered," he said.
"You too," she answered pityingly, scanning the deep marks of agony and passion in his face.
They were at a loss for words.
"Please," he said, a moment later, "let us go somewhere else. Could we not find somewhere to be alone and talk?"
"No, my dear. Let us stay here. It is good enough here. No one is heeding us at all."
"I cannot talk freely here."
"That is all the better."
He could not understand why. Later, when in memory he went over their conversation, he thought she had not trusted him. But she was instinctively afraid of emotional scenes: unconsciously she was seeking protection from any surprise of their hearts: the very awkwardness of their intimacy in a public room, so sheltering the modesty of her secret emotions, was dear to her.
In whispers, with long intervals of silence, they sketched their lives in outline. Count Berény had been killed in a duel a few months ago; and Christophe saw that she had not been very happy with him. Also, she had lost a child, her first-born. She made no complaint, and turned the conversation from herself to question Christophe, and, as he told her of his tribulations, she showed the most affectionate compassion. Bells rang. It was Sunday evening. Life stood still.