"Of course, I remember now." And he repeated, with an intonation that aggravated the words, and stamped them on the young girl's bruised heart: "Yes, 'love and kisses.' There were a number of picture post-cards addressed to the same person; there were many signed with the same name or an abbreviation: H., Her., Herv. I was bold enough to take one as a souvenir of my visit. And then ... and then.... May I say it, Mademoiselle?" "Say what you like. Nothing can hurt me any more now." "Very well; I got hold of this card dishonestly, perhaps, but it was because I was thinking of you.... I was thinking that the man to whom you had just given your hand loved another woman and publicly admitted his love for her. That seemed to me bad; I suffered for you--you whose delicate and generous feelings I had guessed.... Yes, that distressed me and my idea was, by stealing this proof of a wrong action, to let you know of it, if circumstances allowed me." "Then you dropped your pocket-book on purpose?" "I confess. I did. And if that method had failed, I should have tried to find another." "You hurt me a great deal. All the same, I am grateful to you." She held out her hand; Leonor pressed it respectfully. "I have given you less pain now than you would have felt later on. It would have been irremediable then." "Who knows? I might perhaps have forgiven him afterwards. I shall not forgive before." "I know M. Hervart fairly well," said Leonor, in a slightly hypocritical voice, "but I know that, despite his age, he is capricious. M. Lanfranc is a spiteful gossip and I won't repeat all he told me. I know enough, and from certain sources, to make me congratulate myself on what is perhaps an audacious intervention." "And what about my father? He has agreed to our marriage." "Your father lives a long way from Paris. He is kind and trustful. No doubt his friend promised him to make you happy, and he believed him." "I believed him too. Alas! he had begun to make me happy already." "Oh! his intentions weren't bad. M. Hervart is not a bad man. He is fickle, inconstant, irresolute." "I see that only too clearly." "He's an egoist. All men are egoists, for that matter, but there are degrees. Is he capable of loving a woman whole-heartedly, capable of consecrating his life to weaving daily joys for her? And yet what could be a more perfect dream, when one meets in his path a creature who is worthy of it, one who draws to herself not only love but adoration!" "I suppose that women like that are rare." "Those who have known one and desert her are very guilty." "Say rather that they are very much to be pitied. But not being one of these women, I didn't ask so much." "You don't know yourself, Mademoiselle. Oh! if only I had been in M. Hervart's place." "What would have happened?" asked Rose, without the least emotion, without even the least curiosity. "How I should have loved you!" "But he loved me a great deal." "He didn't love you as you should be loved."