"No. But I thought ..." He thanked her with a look. Rosa's heart melted. "My poor ... poor Christophe!" she said. She flung her arms round his neck and wept. Christophe felt the worth of such pure tenderness. He had so much need of consolation! He kissed her: "How kind you are," he said. "You loved her too?" She broke away from him, she threw him a passionate look, did not reply, and began to weep again. That look was a revelation to him. It meant: "It was not she whom I loved...." Christophe saw at last what he had not known--what for months he had not wished to see. He saw that she loved him. "'Ssh," she said. "They are calling me." They heard Amalia's voice. Rosa asked: "Do you want to go back to your room?" He said: "No. I could not yet: I could not bear to talk to my mother.... Later on...." She said: "Stay here. I will come back soon." He stayed in the dark woodshed to which only a thread of light penetrated through a small airhole filled with cobwebs. From the street there came up the cry of a hawker, against the wall a horse in a stable next door was snorting and kicking. The revelation that had just come to Christophe gave him no pleasure; but it held his attention for a moment. It made plain many things that he had not understood. A multitude of little things that he had disregarded occurred to him and were explained. He was surprised to find himself thinking of it; he was ashamed to be turned aside even for a moment from his misery. But that misery was so frightful, so irrepressible that the mistrust of self-preservation, stronger than his will, than his courage, than his love, forced him to turn away from it, seized on this new idea, as the suicide drowning seizes in spite of himself on the first object which can help him, not to save himself, but to keep himself for a moment longer above the water. And it was because he was suffering that he was able to feel what another was suffering--suffering through him. He understood the tears that he had brought to her eyes. He was filled with pity for Rosa. He thought how cruel he had been to her--how cruel he must still be. For he did not love her. What good was it for her to love him? Poor girl!... In vain did he tell himself that she was good (she had just proved it). What was her goodness to him? What was her life to him?... He thought: "Why is it not she who is dead, and the other who is alive?" He thought: "She is alive: she loves me: she can tell me that to-day, to-morrow, all my life: and the other, the woman I love, she is dead and never told me that she loved me: I never have told her that I loved her: I shall never hear her say it: she will never know it...." And suddenly he remembered that last evening: he remembered that they were just going to talk when Rosa came and prevented it. And he hated Rosa....