"Goethe says so; we must believe it."
He took a flower from the table, looked at it a moment and dropping it on the floor, he murmured, lowering his eyes:
"I am an ignoramus; tell me what is this love?"
"It is the folly of friendship."
"Have you ever been foolish?"
"No, and I do not imagine I ever shall be."
He remained motionless for a moment, his arms hanging listlessly; at length, raising them slowly, he crossed his hands over his head, one of his favorite attitudes, raised his eyes from the ground, and looked steadily at me. Oh! what a strange expression! His wild look, a sad and mysterious smile wandering over his lips, his mouth which tried to speak, but to which speech refused to come! That face has been constantly before me since last night; it pursues me, possesses me, and even at this moment its image is stamped in the paper I am writing on. This black velvet tunic, then, may be a forced disguise? Yes, the character of Stephane, his mind, his singularity of conduct,—all these things which astonished and frightened me are now explained. Gilbert, Gilbert! what have you done? into what abyss. . . And yet, perhaps I am mistaken, for how can I believe— There is the dinner bell. . . I shall see HIM again!
XVI
Some hours later, Gilbert entered Stephane's room, and struck by his pallor and with the troubled expression of his voice, inquired about him anxiously.
"I assure you I am very well," Stephane replied, mastering his emotion. "Have you brought me any flowers?"