Christophe had fled to his room: he was choking. Until the removal was over he never left his room. He vowed that he would never look out of the window, but he could not help doing so: and hiding in a corner behind the curtain he followed the departure of the goods and chattels of the beloved eagerly and with profound sorrow. When he saw them disappearing forever he all but ran down to the street to cry: "No! no! Leave them to me! Do not take them from me!" He longed to beg at least for some little thing, only one little thing, so that she should not be altogether taken from him. But how could he ask such a thing of the miller? It was nothing to him. She herself had not known his love: how dared he then reveal it to another? And besides, if he had tried to say a word he would have burst out crying.... No. No. He had to say nothing, to watch all go, without being able--without daring to save one fragment from the wreck.... And when it was all over, when the house was empty, when the yard gate was closed after the miller, when the wheels of his cart moved on, shaking the windows, when they were out of hearing, he threw himself on the floor--not a tear left in him, not a thought of suffering, of struggling, frozen, and like one dead. There was a knock at the door. He did not move. Another knock. He had forgotten to lock the door. Rosa came in. She cried out on seeing him stretched on the floor and stopped in terror. He raised his head angrily: "What? What do you want? Leave me!" She did not go: she stayed, hesitating, leaning against the floor, and said again: "Christophe...." He got up in silence: he was ashamed of having been seen so. He dusted himself with his hand and asked harshly: "Well. What do you want?" Rosa said shyly: "Forgive me ... Christophe ... I came in ... I was bringing you...." He saw that she had something in her hand. "See," she said, holding it out to him. "I asked Bertold to give me a little token of her. I thought you would like it...." It was a little silver mirror, the pocket mirror in which she used to look at herself for hours, not so much from coquetry as from want of occupation. Christophe took it, took also the hand which held it. "Oh! Rosa!..." he said. He was filled with her kindness and the knowledge of his own injustice. On a passionate impulse he knelt to her and kissed her hand. "Forgive ... Forgive ..." he said. Rosa did not understand at first: then she understood only too well: she blushed, she trembled, she began to weep. She understood that he meant: "Forgive me if I am unjust.... Forgive me if I do not love you.... Forgive me if I cannot ... if I cannot love you, if I can never love you!..." She did not withdraw her hand from him: she knew that it was not herself that he was kissing. And with his cheek against Rosa's hand, he wept hot tears, knowing that she was reading through him: there was sorrow and bitterness in being unable to love her and making her suffer.