"No, I tell you. I forbid you to say so. . . . I won't hear any more about it. It's ended, ended." "It's ended," Annette repeated. They went back along the road bathed in the light of the moon, overjoyed at having recovered each other. Suddenly Sylvie halted, and, shaking her fist at the moon, she cried: "Oh! the beast! . . . He'll pay me for it!" And, as youth never loses its rights, she burst out laughing at her malediction. "But do you know what we are going to do?" Sylvie continued spitefully. "We are going to pack as soon as we get back, and to-morrow, to-morrow morning, we'll be off by the first post. When he comes to the table at luncheon time, he'll find no one. . . . The birds will have flown! . . . Oh! . . . and then . . ." (she burst out laughing) "I made a date with him for about ten o'clock, in the woods up there. . . . He'll be running after me all morning. . . ." She laughed more heartily than ever; and so did Annette. The spectacle of Tullio, disappointed and furious, seemed so amusing to them. The two madcaps! Already their sufferings were far away. "Just the same," observed Annette, "it's not very nice, dear, to compromise yourself like that." "Piffle! What's that to me?" replied Sylvie. "I don't matter. . . . Yes," she went on, taking a passing nip at Annette's hand that was patting her ear, "I should be more careful now that I'm your sister. . . . I will be, I promise you. . . . But you, my dear, you know that you weren't so much more careful." "No, that's true," answered Annette contritely. "And I was afraid at times that I might be still less so. . . . Oh!" she exclaimed, pressing closer to her sister, "how strange the heart is! One never, never knows when it's going to rise up inside you and carry you away . . . whither?" "Yes," said Sylvie, hugging her, "that's why I love you! That heart of yours is a powerful affair!" They were ready to go in again. The roofs of the hotel were gleaming under the moonlight. Sylvie slipped her arm around Annette's neck and whispered in her ear with an intensity and a seriousness she herself did not realize: "My darling! I shall never forget what you have suffered to-night . . . what you have suffered because of me. . . . Yes, yes, don't say no! I had time to think of it while I was running in search of you, trembling that some misfortune . . . If it had happened! . . . Oh! what would I have done! . . . I should have never come back." "Darling," exclaimed Annette, deeply moved, "it was not your fault, you couldn't know how you were hurting me." "I knew perfectly well. I knew that I was making you suffer, and it--listen, Annette!--it even gave me pleasure!" Annette's heart contracted; and a short while ago she too had thought that she would like to make Sylvie suffer until the blood ran. She said so. They clasped each other in their arms.