"Forgive me … Christophe … I came in … I was bringing you…."
He saw that she had something in her hand.
"See," she said, holding it out to him. "I asked Bertold to give me a little token of her. I thought you would like it…."
It was a little silver mirror, the pocket mirror in which she used to look at herself for hours, not so much from coquetry as from want of occupation. Christophe took it, took also the hand which held it.
"Oh! Rosa!…" he said.
He was filled with her kindness and the knowledge of his own injustice. On a passionate impulse he knelt to her and kissed her hand.
"Forgive … Forgive …" he said.
Rosa did not understand at first: then she understood only too well: she blushed, she trembled, she began to weep. She understood that he meant:
"Forgive me if I am unjust…. Forgive me if I do not love you…. Forgive me if I cannot … if I cannot love you, if I can never love you!…"
She did not withdraw her hand from him: she knew that it was not herself that he was kissing. And with his cheek against Rosa's hand, he wept hot tears, knowing that she was reading through him: there was sorrow and bitterness in being unable to love her and making her suffer.