"I don't know. How should I know these things? I believed, that was all. I believed in him." "He was not worthy of you." "Perhaps it was I who was unworthy of him, since he loves me no more." "Unworthy of him, you? Don't you know, then, what this woman is?" "No, and I don't want to know. Oh! I'm not jealous. I'm humiliated. I feel as though I had been beaten. Jealous? No. I have stopped loving and I shall never love again." "Don't say that." "Love doesn't come twice." "But if one is unhappy the first time?" "One remains unhappy." "Happiness always has to be looked for. When one looks for it one finds it." "Happiness falls from heaven one day; then it goes up again and never descends any more." "Don't say that. You will be happy." "It's finished." "You will be happy as soon as you meet some one you really love with all the force of an ardent and devoted heart." "Don't let's speak of these things. It hurts me." "I obey you. I will be silent, but not before telling you that that heart is mine." Rose looked at him with astonished eyes. She seemed not to understand. Leonor, very much moved, got up, walked towards her and said, in a whisper: "Rose, I love you." At these words, Rose started, and when Leonor tried to take her hand, she got up and ran away, crying: "No, no, no, no." "How stupid I've been," Leonor said to himself, when he was alone. "Does one declare one's love like this? Here am I on a level with the lowest heroes of novels. Think of declaring one's love, saying, 'I am hot,' to a woman who is cold. What does it mean to her? Words possess eloquence when the ears expect them. If not, they ring false. They only incline hearts which have already abdicated their will." Leonor was very sincerely in love with Rose; hence he was very unhappy. He imagined, moreover, that M. Hervart was already completely pardoned. Rose was only awaiting some act of humility to give herself to him again. "She is hurt in her pride. Her heart is happy, if happiness consists in loving much more than in being loved. It is a painful pleasure, but none the less a pleasure, for her to talk of M. Hervart...." That evening Leonor had no difficulty in putting on a melancholy and disenchanted look. He felt these two emotions to perfection, and Rose, who could not help looking at him, noticed it. "Can he really be in love with me," she wondered, "----he?" The next morning, when she woke up, she asked herself the same dangerous question. Then suddenly, a wave of red mounted to her head. She had just remembered all the amusements into which her own innocence and M. Hervart's perverse good-nature had led her. "I am dishonoured," she said to herself. "Am I a maiden?" This was the first time that she had felt any shame in calling to mind the kisses and caresses in which her heart, rather than her body, had felt pleasure. Though she was unconscious of the transference, the pain which she still felt had, without changing its nature, changed its cause.